


Every Day I'm Tumbln'

by Sheepnamedpig



Series: Tumblr Fics [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Age Reversal, Alpha!Stiles, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Always-a-girl!Stiles, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Animals, BDSM, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Constipation, Courtship, Crossdressing, Crossover, Deputy Stiles Stilinski, Dirty Talk, Discipline, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Double Anal Penetration, Douching, Edging, Epistolary, Established Relationship, F/M, Failwolf, First Time, Fluff, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Fractured Fairy Tale, Glory Hole, Hale Family Feels, Human!Derek, Implied Mpreg, In Medias Res, Inspired by Art, Intercrural Sex, Jealousy, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marathon Sex, Miscommunication, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Non-Negotiated D/s, Oblivious Stiles, Omega!Derek, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overpreparation, Overstimulation, POV Outsider, Pack Mom Derek Hale, Pegging, Pet Play, Photocopier!Derek, Pining, Pregnancy, Public Sex, Rimming, Role Reversal, Roleplay, Screamer!Derek, Sex Toys, Sexual Fantasy, Sounding, Spanking, Stalking, Stilinski Twins, Teacher-Student Relationship, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Top!Stiles, Troll!Stiles, True Love, Tumblr fics, Wererabbit!Derek, Werespider!Stiles, Werewolf!Stiles, always-a-girl!Derek, bottom!Derek, dom!stiles, fanboy!Derek, nullification, stripper!derek, sub!derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 50
Words: 41,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheepnamedpig/pseuds/Sheepnamedpig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short fics originally posted to <a href="http://sheepnamedpig.tumblr.com/">my Tumblr</a>, edited and collected here.</p><p>Capped at 50 chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Once upon a time in ancient China

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Backstory: Derek is from the Middle East and ran away from home b/c REASONS, heading east until he hit the seaside town of Beacon Hills, which is in southeast China. Basically everyone but the Hales are Chinese and therefore LANGUAGE BARRIERS also because REASONS (of the admittedly practical variety).
> 
> A/N: Much discussion of linguistics ahead. A phoneme is a unit of sound like the /ah/ sound or the /sh/ sound.

"See," Stiles gestures widely with his chopsticks, “moveable type is destined to revolutionize the entire world. Maybe spark a renaissance or two. With moveable type, you can produce mass printings of books for cheap, which means the poor will be able to afford them, which means the lower classes will become literate. Suddenly you’ve got cheap education for the masses, which increases human capital and social mobility, and then it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to raising the standard of living for even the poorest of the poor. Well, in an ideal world, but it’s possible. Though it’s a shame that’ll never happen here, y’know?"

Derek stares at him like he’s gone insane, but then Derek eats out of his bowl with his  _hands_  which _ugh_  and  _gross_ , so it’s not like Derek has any room to judge.

"Our written language just makes it impossible, which sucks, and fie on whatever sadist designed a written language made up of unique ideograms. Though if we managed to develop a writing system with a limited number of characters, no more than say, forty or fifty, that can be combined to form unique phoneme combinations, that would be awesome," Stiles muses. Derek shovels more rice into his mouth.

"Each phoneme combination can represent a word or idea, with more common concepts being shorter for simplicity’s sake, and then when all the short combinations run out, (which would take some doing, I’ve done the math), you just start making longer combinations. Or you could even assign certain common ideas to specific phonemes and put the phonemes together like interlocking pieces of meaning. Like, say you had a phoneme that represented water and another phoneme that represented the idea of a container. You could just piece them together and voila! a two-part word for ‘aquifer’ that doesn’t involve one getting carpal tunnel from writing out the ten thousand strokes all the freaking time."

Derek picks a slice of beef out of his bowl, reaches across the table, and shoves it into Stiles’ open mouth. With his  _fingers._

"Oh my God!" Stiles splutters. “You are so gross, did you know that? Why can’t you just use chopsticks! Ugh. I can’t believe you touch your food with your hands. I mean, buns are okay because they’re designed to be eaten with your hands, but rice? Vegetables?  _Fish?_  Who knows where you’ve put those mitts of yours, and don’t you even dare pretend that rubbing them in water makes them any less dirty. You’re gonna give me tetanus or something, you unhygienic jerk."

Derek glares at Stiles, holding up a clump of rice in warning. Stiles flinches away and returns to his own bowl with only a few grumbles.

"Linguistics is just awesome, okay?" he mutters to his rice and chopsticks. He taps the sticks together and they click agreeably.

Derek huffs, rolls his eyes, and says something undoubtedly rude in his own language, but he nudges Stiles with his hip on the way to pile his empty bowl with the rest of the dirty dishes. He heads out after that to wash up, and when Stiles finishes his own lunch, he lays out Derek’s prayer mat facing west for when Derek gets back.

He’s never understood religion, particularly of the monotheistic variety, but maybe, when he finally learns Derek’s language or Derek finally learns his, or they learn enough of each others’ to piece together a conversation, Derek will explain it to him.


	2. The Cinderella Sterek fic I will never ever ever write. Ever.

Stiles is the son of the local lord (Papa Stilinski) who marries the widow Victoria Argent after his wife dies. She brings with her her own daughter, Allison, and Allison and Stiles get along well and Victoria is a good, if sometimes terrifying, stepmother to Stiles. A neighboring lord, greedy for the Stilinski family’s wealth and holdings, somehow seizes the family’s assets and kills Papa Stilinski, leaving Stiles as the lord but the family penniless and homeless.

Prince Derek is being pushed by his family to marry, but he’s arrogant and cold and literally nobody wants anything to do with him. It doesn’t help that he’s got most of the rest of the royal family in front of him in the line of succession, nor that he chases every potential suitor away as hard as he can.

Stiles, desperate to help his family, goes to the palace and offers to marry Derek. The royal family is like, what the Hell?

But nobody else is volunteering and Stiles refuses to be chased away, so they get married and Stiles is able to use his new and not-inconsiderable clout to strip the evil lord of his title and property and have the man finally face justice. With his stepmom and stepsister taken care of, he settles in to life at the palace, making new friends and regularly plundering the royal family’s library.

His marriage to Derek is completely loveless and, aside from a passionless and painful consummation the very first night, sexless. Derek doesn’t like Stiles and Stiles doesn’t like Derek and that’s how it seems destined to remain.

Except Derek sees Stiles making friends with the other people in the court, sees him having fun and living life to the fullest. It makes him angry for some reason and he decides that if he’s going to be miserable, he might as well take Stiles down with him. So he tries to punish Stiles, reassigning his favorite manservant to the harsher duties, showering Stiles’ friends with disfavor, etc, and for a while it works, but when Derek realizes that his anger stemmed from jealousy, he backs off and goes back to letting Stiles do as he pleases. Unfortunately, it’s too late for their relationship, which went from bad to a heap of razor-sharp shards.

From then on, Stiles actively despises Derek, for good reason, and goes out of his way to avoid him. Even the rest of Derek’s family comes down on Stiles’ side, expressing disappointment in Derek even though they still love him as family.

To make things worse, Derek starts to fall in love with Stiles from afar. He’s entranced by Stiles’ laughs and smiles, the way he’s fair and generous and loyal, how he’s clever enough to give Lady Lydia and Prince Peter a run for their money, how he’s mischievous but not harmfully so, and how he’s just generally a better person than Derek deserves. Deep down, Derek begins to wish he could be less of an unpopular, temperamental jerk and more like Stiles.

Knowing that Stiles responds to all correspondence by hand, he writes an anonymous letter to Stiles asking how he can become a better person. Stiles answers it, asking about the anonymous writer to better understand what kind of person they are. This starts a regular exchange of letters between them with Stiles completely ignorant of who he’s writing to.

Derek starts trying to put Stiles’ advice to good use, taking more time to listen, trying to see issues from another’s perspective, be more forgiving of honest mistakes and accidents, be more generous, etc. Stiles also suggests he smile more, but that’s a little beyond Derek’s capabilities. All the while, he falls deeper in love with Stiles but knows that Stiles wants nothing to do with him in spite of their matching rings.

Stiles, on the other hand, is noticing Derek changing for the better, how he’s not such an asshole anymore, and stops avoiding Derek quite so much simply because he’s curious to see how far the changes go. Stiles still refuses to have actual conversations with him because once bit, twice shy, but he’s less cold to Derek, which secretly makes Derek happy.

Also, Stiles is starting to fall in love with his anonymous penpal, which sucks epically. They talk about all kinds of things, about court politics, books, people they’ve met, places they’ve been, their childhoods (about which his penpal is understandably vague), their dreams, their hopes, etc. But when they talk about love, the penpal is always sad because he’s in love with someone who despises him. Penpal refuses to give details, mostly because Derek knows how smart Stiles is and doesn’t want to lose this precious connection between them. Stiles lets it go and feels guilty that he a) wants Penpal to get over the person he’s in love with and b) is willing to commit adultery in the event that Penpal actually falls for him.

He even asks Derek (through notes, not in person) if it would be okay if he had an extramarital affair. He’s expecting to get shut down, but Derek, heartbroken, just asks, "Do you love them?" Stiles answers "Yes," and even though it kills Derek and makes him loathe himself even more, he says, "Do as you like."

Ironically, this both eases Stiles’ conscience and hurts him. On one hand, Derek obviously cares so little about Stiles that he doesn’t mind Stiles having an affair (which makes Stiles wonder if Derek has been having an affair(s?)). He kinda wishes Derek gave enough of a damn to be offended by Stiles’ infidelity and care about their marriage. On the other hand, he's free to enter into a relationship with Penpal, should the opportunity arise.

So, permission received, Stiles says he wants to meet Penpal. Derek is freaked but desperate for the opportunity to talk with Stiles during the upcoming Mask festival, a week-long town-wide party during which everyone wears masks and even royalty are treated as common people.

Derek functionally disappears during the festival aside from official events, which is fine by Stiles because it gives him more freedom to spend time with his Penpal, who is surprisingly shy but acts like Stiles hung the moon and painted all the stars.

They talk about everything and dance and eat food together and basically act like a young couple in the first blush of love. Stiles falls even further in love, and when they finally discuss love, he admits that he wishes Penpal would move on from his unrequited love so Stiles could have a chance at winning his heart.

Derek is dumbstruck, but also knows that if Stiles finds out who exactly is under the black wolf mask and costume, he’ll flip, and not in a nice way. So he says that he can’t, even though it makes Stiles look so sad.

On the very last night of the festival, everyone unmasks themselves at midnight. Stiles is looking forward to it until Penpal says that he absolutely doesn’t want Stiles to see his face. Stiles is disappointed, but teasingly says that he’ll wear a blindfold the whole time if Penpal gives him a single kiss in return. Derek agrees to the offer, much to Stiles’ surprise, and on the very last night, Stiles takes off his mask, lets Derek blindfold him, and gets his kiss from an unmasked Derek. And then a few more kisses after that because neither of them  _really_  wants to stop.

They’re tucked away in a hidden corner, so they figure they’ll be safe from prying eyes, but apparently their corner is not so hidden because a group of revelers almost finds them. Derek panics, not wanting anyone to see them together. He runs, or tries to, but Stiles catches him by the hand and doesn’t want him to go, so Derek slides his hand out of his glove and escapes, leaving Stiles standing there blindfolded with nothing but a wolf mask and a black, silver-embroidered glove.

Stiles goes straight back to the palace, no longer in the mood for partying, and finds Derek skulking around looking flushed and disheveled. Derek’s a mess because he literally sprinted all the way to the palace to change out of his costume and hide it, but Stiles doesn’t know that and is in a shit mood besides, so he asks Derek how his own affair is going, since Stiles’ sure isn’t going anywhere.

Derek, still shaken and not sure how to face Stiles, admits that he has never been unfaithful and sticks to that even though Stiles is incredulous. Then Stiles finally realizes that Derek is serious and asks whim outright why he hell he gave Stiles permission to go outside their marriage.

Derek tells Stiles that he knows Stiles will probably never feel anything for him, so if Stiles were to fall in love with someone else, he’d let Stiles go to be with that person.

Stiles, of course, is shocked. Of all the things he’d expected to hear, that one was the absolute last. He asks Derek out of curiosity if Derek would even let Stiles divorce him. Derek says that his family would probably take issue to that, but if Stiles and his lover really wanted it, he’d side with Stiles and push for the divorce, even if it meant going against his family and sovereign.

Derek knows he’s basically talking himself into a corner. If Stiles were to take him up on the offer, he’d be forced to divorce Stiles, then turn down any offer of marriage Stiles might make to his penpal. In the end, that would leave Stiles with precisely neither of them, but he needs Stiles to know that the offer is there.

Luckily, Stiles knows that, even though Penpal seemed to enjoy their makeout session, he was still completely in love with someone else, which he admits to Derek. Derek heaves a mental sigh of relief at dodging that particular arrow, but wishes that he didn’t have to keep stringing Stiles along.

Stiles and Derek get along a lot better after that night. They even participate in civil conversations, which pretty much blows everyone’s minds, including their own. But while all is well on that front, things aren’t going quite so smoothly for Stiles and his penpal.

Stiles doesn’t want to pressure Penpal into anything, so aside from asking if he could keep Penpal’s mask and glove, he makes no more mention of it, determined not to make things awkward. Things are awkward anyway because Derek lets some (or maybe a lot) of his happiness over his and Stiles’ improved relationship slip into his letters, and when Stiles forces the reason out of him, Stiles is kinda crushed by the news that Penpal is finally befriending his unrequited love.

Derek, realizing he’s stumbled on a golden opportunity, plays up Penpal’s relationship with the other guy, basically pulling their love story out of his own fantasies. Stiles is supportive, but outside the letters, Derek can see that it’s taking a toll on him, so he decides to make a clean break of it. As Penpal, he thanks Stiles for his advice on how not to be a raging asshole, their discussions, their week together, Stiles’ unwavering support, and promises Stiles that there’s someone out there that loves him as much as Penpal loves his mystery guy.

And then that’s it. No more letters.

Stiles is suddenly the most morose and moody bastard in the palace even as Derek is becoming friendlier and more open. It’s like they’ve switched personalities. Stiles is so miserable that he even latches onto Derek’s clumsy attempts to comfort him.

They start spending a lot of time together, Stiles channeling his heartbreak into the physical pursuits that Derek usually prefers and Derek being happy that Stiles is willing to spend time with him and do activities with him. Slowly, their tenuous thing solidifies into a friendly acquaintance, and from there starts building into an actual friendship.

Derek is nervous at first, worried that they’ll talk about the same things that Stiles and Penpal wrote about and that Stiles will realize that Derek and Penpal are literally the same person, but luckily Stiles seems determined to avoid thinking about Penpal and everything they discuss is new territory.

The whole court and royal family is bewildered by how well things are going between them. Derek, taking Stiles’ advice to heart, apologizes for being a dickweed to Stiles in the early days of their marriage. Stiles tries to apologize in return for being so quick to judge, but Derek waves him off, saying that his first impression had been extremely accurate.

What Stiles likes about Derek, aside from his sassy wit, is that Derek never asks about Penpal, and when Stiles finally volunteers the story, Derek listens quietly but intently, like Stiles is imparting unto him the Word of God. Over time, Stiles begins to discover even more things he likes about Derek: that he’s forgiving of honest mistakes and accidents, that he always tries to think of issues from multiple perspectives, that he’s generous with charities and charitable work. He still never smiles, but that’s a bit much. Slowly, so slowly it takes him a long while to notice it, he starts to develop the same feelings for Derek that he’d had for Penpal, which terrifies him.

It’s not on the same scale or nearly as intense, but only  _not yet_ , and the feelings that are there get stronger every day. There is, of course, the small matter of Derek returning Stiles’ affections, but he’s pretty sure that won’t be a problem. He’s not blind, after all, and Derek doesn’t look at anyone’s mouth the way he looks at Stiles’. It only indicates physical attraction, of course, but it’s a starting point, so he makes plans to tell Derek about his evolving feelings the night of their first anniversary.

Their anniversary party is small, seeing as Derek is only a minor prince, but there’s tradition that states that their anniversary night should be spent together, so they both end up in the same room they’d consummated their marriage in.

“Derek, there’s something I need to tell you,” Stiles says.

Derek nods. “Of course, but I have a gift for you.” He goes to a side table and picks up a flat rectangular box, his fingers tracing nervously over the sharply folded corners of the wrapping paper. “And a confession to make.”

Derek holds the gift out to Stiles, who takes it, weighing it curiously in his palm. “Another gift? The summer house for Victoria and Allison wasn’t enough?”

Stiles plucks at the ribbon, unraveling the bow and let it hang over his wrist as he unfolds the wine-red paper. Derek is fidgeting like someone’s dropped a lizard down his shirt and Stiles pauses, watching the prince sweat.

“If there is anyone who knows why this present should not be opened, let them speak now or forever hold their peace,” Stiles teases.

Derek actually wipes his palms on his thighs which, wow, is the most nervous gesture Stiles has ever seen him make.

“Open-” Derek’s voice cracks. He clears his throat. “Open it. You’ll probably hate me for it, but I need you to know.”

Okay, that’s a little worrying. Dropping the wrapping paper, he pries the lid up and flips aside the tissue paper to reveal-

A glove. A black glove embroidered with sweeping lines of silver thread.

“Where did you get this?” Stiles whispers, staring down at the glove. “This is- This belongs to  _me_.”

He looks up and Derek is shaking his head minutely. The prince reaches into an inside pocket and pulls out an identical glove, displaying it on his palm. “ _This_  is the one that belongs to you.”

Stiles stares dumbly between the two gloves because he’s right, the one Derek is holding is the very one he’d kept as a reminder of the one person who had broken his heart without even trying. And the one Derek had given him, with its matching pattern and opposite-facing thumb, was its match.

“Where did you get this?” Stiles asks breathlessly. “Who did you get this from?”

Derek takes a deep breath and answers, “Nobody. Nobody gave it to me. I was the one wearing it that night.”

Stiles’ jaw sags open.

“You-” he sputters, “You were- the- I don’t  _believe_  you!”

Derek nods decisively, crosses over to his writing desk, and pulls out a sheet of paper. He dips a pen in the inkwell and writes a few lines as Stiles watches, then puts the pen down and returns to Stiles, handing over the page, the wet ink still shining in the light.

_~~Dear St~~  Dearest Stiles,_

_I can tell that you are angry, and you have a right to be so, but the truth is that I have loved you for a very long time, since I saw how you embraced your life here and found happiness in spite of the misery I tried to heap upon you. I deserved your anger then, and I deserve it again now. I do not expect you to return my affections, for that is one miracle that I do not deserve, but I felt that you needed to know the truth so that you might finally find closure and move on._

_Yours, always yours,_

_Derek_

The handwriting matches perfectly. The man he’d written to, the man he’d fallen in love with, the man he’d  _kissed_ , was  _Derek_.

The letter and box slip from Stiles’ suddenly nerveless fingers. He closes the gap between them with one long stride, steps into Derek’s space, and drives his fist up into Derek’s chin.

Stiles is no boxer, but there’s enough force there to send Derek sprawling back onto the floor, sparks exploding in his vision. Stiles is on him again in half an instant, straddling his waist and dragging him up by the front of his shirt, arm raised to give Derek the shiner to end all shiners.

“Oh my God,” Stiles yells. “Oh my God! You are such an asshole!”

He drops Derek, whose head bounces off the thin rug, and catches Derek’s face between his palms, swooping in to mash their lips together. Derek moans in pain, still dazed from the sucker punch, and Stiles angrily bounces his head off the floor again.

“Oh my God. I hate you  _so_  much,” he growls breathlessly, then hunches over for another rough kiss. Feeling vindictively affectionate, he starts biting roughly at Derek’s lips.

“Ow,” Derek grunts. But he opens his mouth and lets Stiles draw his tongue out so he can bite at that, too.

“You deserved it, ass,” Stiles snaps between bites. “You have got so-” bite ”-freaking-” bite ”-much-” bite, bite ”-groveling to do.”

Derek pulls his tongue back in just long enough to say, “Ok.”

Stiles rears back just far enough to glare effectively. “Ugh. You are such a pain in my ass. Why do I even like you?” Derek stiffens and shies away which, “Nuh-uh, you don’t.”

With a heave that almost puts his back out, Stiles drags Derek up and over, rolling them so Derek is the one sprawled on top of Stiles.

Derek moans as the room spins. “Please don’t do that again. I don’t want to throw up on you.”

Stiles maneuvers Derek’s head into an optimal kissing position. “If you do, I'm going to add it to the list of things you’ll be begging my forgiveness for.”

“Ok,” Derek repeats.

“I want another horse,” Stiles demands imperiously, dragging his lips over Derek’s face just because he can.

“Ok.”

“And another summer home for when Scott and Allison get married.”

“Ok.”

“And bad poetry.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough to make even Lord Finstock weep with agony.”

“Alright.”

“And you have to recite it before the court.”

“I’ll have Laura schedule it.”

Stiles gently tips Derek off him so they’re lying face-to-face. Derek blinks woozily but pulls his arm up so both their heads are pillowed on it. Stiles presses a kiss to the end of Derek’s nose, glad he had aimed for his chin at the very last moment.

“I want a happily ever after,” he says.

Derek smiles and says, “Ok.”


	3. Three times a quail fails to woo a kiwi and one time he succeeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic based on [this](http://michellicopter.tumblr.com/post/34192674502/i-dont-really-have-an-explanation-except-i-like) fanart by [michellicopter](http://michellicopter.tumblr.com/).

“You’re biologically efficient,” Derek Quale says.

Stiles blinks, turns on his heel (because he’s a kiwi and he has heels so fuck you and your stupid wings, Derek Quale) and trots away. Derek’s backhanded compliments were novel at first, but now Stiles just wants nothing to do with them.

“Dude. Uncalled for,” he hears Scott say. “If you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say anything at all.”

Darwin bless Scott MaCawl, loyal friend and brother from another branch of the evolutionary tree.

&&&

Derek drops a bundle of leaves in front of Stiles, who nudges at them curiously with the tip of his beak. They smell…leafy.

“Uh, thanks? I’ll add them to my nest?”

Derek seems to be trying to think of something to say, so Stiles waits. And waits. And  _waits_. So Stiles picks up the leaves in his beak and turns to go.

“They’re for you to eat,” Derek grunts.

“Um. I’m more of a meat kind of guy,” Stiles mumbles around the leaves

“Fine.” Derek snatches the leaves right out of Stiles’ beak and flushes, the downward force of his wings spraying Stiles with loose dirt as he takes off.

“Asshole,” Stiles yells after him.

&&&

“This is for you,” Derek says.

“What is it?” Stiles asks politely. His prior ‘asshole’ had not gone as unheard as he’d thought and his dad had used Parental Disappointment on him as a result. It was super effective.

“A nest.”

Stiles eyes the nest. It looks vaguely nest-like, but even to Stiles’ relatively untrained eyes it’s kind of a mess. But Stiles is trying to be polite, or at least not an outright jackass, so he says, “It’s kinda small for a kiwi, dude.”

Derek’s wings twitch in surprise and he eyes Stiles like he honestly hadn’t noticed how  _big_  Stiles actually is.

“Nevermind, then,” he says, and stalks off.

This time Stiles looks around for dropping eaves before he says (quietly) to himself, “What a freak.”

&&&

Stiles doesn’t even recognize Derek; the quail is so covered in dust and dirt that he looks like a girl.

“Follow me,” Derek pants. Because he’s out of breath. Stiles knew, as a hypothetical possibility, that Derek could physically exert himself to the point of breathlessness, but the guy is crazy fit, even more so than Jackson Whitecay, who is maniacal about staying in shape for swim season.

So Stiles follows, partly out of curiosity but mostly out of boredom. His dad is out doing Sheriffy things and Scott is hanging out with Allison Silverback, which yeah, Unlikeliest Couple of the Year award goes to…

Stiles starts to recognize his surroundings pretty quick, since Derek is leading them back in the direction of Stiles’ burrow, and yep, there it is. And spread out in front of it is a freaking all-you-can-eat  _buffet_  of bugs and worms and seeds and berries and even a few  _frogs_ , which Stiles hasn’t had since he banned them from his dad’s diet a while back.

A lot of things click into place: the (backhanded) compliments, the leaves, the  _nest_. Which, how on earth did Stiles not figure it out after the freaking  _nest_?

“Are you trying to impress me?” Stiles says incredulously. “Are you trying to  _mate_  with me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Derek snaps. “But clearly you’re not interested.”

He flaps up into the air but Stiles bites his ankle before he gets too high and hauls him back down to the ground.

“Aw, hell no,” Stiles says. “You’re not doing that whole propose-and-run thing.”

“What do you mean, ‘propose’? I just want to date you!” Derek shouts, but when Stiles nudges him in the direction of the delicious looking smorgasbord, he doesn’t even put up a token protest, walking so close to Stiles that he’s almost  _under_  Stiles’ bulk.

“Tough shit, buddy. Kiwis are monogamous. Welcome to the family and until death do us part.” And then Stiles picks up an overripe berry and smashes it into Derek’s face.


	4. The obligatory Toyota fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DEREK HALE, ~~SOCCER~~ PACK MOM.
> 
> A continuation of [shipsanddip](http://shipsanddip.tumblr.com/)'s [ficlet](http://shipsanddip.tumblr.com/post/53228461672/you-you-stiles-cant-believe-his-eyes-there).

Stiles’ hands are cartwheeling through the air as he explains, in detail, his latest conspiracy theory about that shitty MTV show he’s started watching, ‘Teen Fowl’ or something. Whatever. Derek just focuses on the road and bites his lip against pointing out that Stiles’ theory only works because he’s completely forgotten that thing that happened at 28:33 in episode 9. Not that Derek knows what happened 28 minutes and 33 seconds into episode 9 because he absolutely doesn’t watch it obsessively like Stiles does, just has the DVDs for when the pack comes over and needs to be distracted from wrecking his stuff and jumping off the spiral staircase.

A rabbit darts out onto the road, fast enough to startle even his reflexes, and he slams on the brakes, shooting his right arm out in front of Stiles’ chest. The rabbit darts away, but Derek’s senses reach out automatically, searching the surrounding area for further threats. Nothing presents itself, and Derek relaxes by degrees. His clawed hand loosens on the steering wheel and he pulls his right hand back to rest them on ten and two, just like his mom taught him.

"Oh my god," Stiles breathes.

Derek glances over, then double takes at Stiles’ slack jawed expression. He only looks at Stiles’ lips once. Okay, twice. “What."

Stiles’ mouth and glittering eyes widen into an expression of unholy, mocking glee. “Dude, you just  _mom armed_  me. Driving your  _soccer mom_  car."

_Shit._


	5. The Boiler Room scene, revised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to [shipsanddip](http://shipsanddip.tumblr.com/)'s [reaction](http://shipsanddip.tumblr.com/post/53542498035/here-is-why-the-derek-and-ms-blake-scene-doesnt) to the boiler room scene because I felt that her reaction was more genuine than Derek's.

Scott and Isaac skid to a stop and Derek’s there, he’s  _alive_ , leaning over the girl, Cora, with this expression on his face, like  _Is this the real life, Is this just fantasy?,_ like he’s seeing something that he doesn’t believe, refuses to believe, can’t process, does not compute, blue screen of death. It’s one they’ve been catching glimpses of all night, since the fight in the vault, interspersed with lucid-seeming moments where Derek talks about killing Boyd and- and Cora, his sister.

Derek’s fingertips hover over the curve of her cheek, not close enough to touch, just there, feeling the illusory heat of her body, transient,  _ephemeral._  

"Derek…?" Isaac ventures.

Derek’s head darts up. His eyes don’t quite focus on them and he looks, looks  _lost_ , like he’s stuck somewhere between here and somewhere else, but he pulls it together just enough to nod in the direction of the supply room, where the third heartbeat is pounding out a rapid staccato. “There’s someone," he sighs, almost dreamily, “help them. And Boyd, we need to…"

His eyes go out of focus and slip down to Cora, her face soft in unconsciousness. Scott jogs off in the direction of the third heartbeat and Isaac kneels next to Boyd, hauling a limp arm over his shoulders even though he can’t takes his eyes off Derek and Derek’s sister.

"Um," he says. He feels awkward, off-balance in a way he hasn’t felt since he was still a human. There’s something he should say, probably, some phrase or sentence or philosophical quote, but he doesn’t know what it is, only that the sun is up and Scott is coming back and they all need to get out of this stupid fucking boiler room.

But maybe he doesn’t actually need to say anything, because Derek lets his fingertips land on Cora’s cheek, his hand sliding in to cup her jaw, and it’s like a slow-motion hug, his thickly muscled arms curling around Cora’s slim body as he presses his face into the vulnerable arch of her throat. Isaac hears his heartbeat stutter, sees his shoulders shudder in something that might be a sob, and smells salt that might not be from sweat or blood.


	6. Dirty talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [shipsanddip](http://shipsanddip.tumblr.com/) prompted: Can I have Derek riding Stiles while Stiles talks dirty to him please?

"I-I’m supposed-" Derek gasps, “I’m supposed to be in contro-oh! Fuck,  _there_ , yes!"

Stiles bucks his hips up, feet planted firmly on the mattress as Derek bounces and rocks above him, impaling himself on Stiles’ cock with the kind of intense focus Stiles has only seen when Scott tries to scrape the last of the peanut butter off the bottom of the jar. He wishes he could use his hands, could grip Derek’s hips and tease Derek’s bobbing cock, but they’ve been handcuffed to the headboard. Hence the whole thing where Derek thinks he’s in charge.

"Ha!" Stiles breathes out sharply, letting his hips drop to the bed on one of Derek’s downstrokes. Gravity pulls Derek down after him and the ringing smack of flesh on flesh almost drowns out the sharp breath that punches out of him. “You like it, you  _love_ it when I’m the boss of you, yeah. Yeah."

Derek whines and moves his hands from the bed to Stiles’ chest to get better leverage. It changes the angle of his hips and Derek grinds down eagerly even as Stiles fucks upward with aborted little thrusts. Fuck, Derek’s so hot and soft inside, and so so  _so_  good.

"Love having my dick up your pretty ass, don’t you, pretty honey, love me filling you up with my cock until you’re taking it so deep up your lovely hole that you choke on it. Yeah, you love it so much."

Stiles rolls his hips until Derek lifts a little, giving him the space to fuck up into Derek’s ass with rapid strokes that make Derek moan from deep in his chest.

"Got a cock ring for you," Stiles grunts. “Thought maybe you could wear it on your gorgeous cock."

Derek’s eyes, glazed over with pleasure as his orgasm hurtles closer, focus shakily on Stiles’ face.

Stiles grins toothily, a shark’s smile. “Changed my mind. Gonna wear it and fuck you ‘till you scream for mercy."

The muscles of Derek’s torso flex into sharp relief as he comes, hunching over Stiles’ chest as his mouth falls into a slack ‘o’. Stiles follows hard on Derek’s heels, but forces his eyes to stay open and watch as Derek shudders and shivers, his come raining down on Stiles.


	7. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Sanhaim](http://sanhaim.tumblr.com/) prompted: Omegaverse, they’re going for kids and Derek’s the omega. 
> 
> Featuring human!Alpha!Stiles and werewolf alpha!Omega!Derek.

Stiles glances at the box of fertility tests on the nightstand even as he’s hopping clumsily out of his underwear, the blush of his synchronous heat staining his front from forehead to pubes. Derek breathes in the scent that wafts off of him. Another gush of natural slickness leaks out of him and he squirms on the mattress, reveling in the way his asscheeks slip against each other. Still, if he has to take one more of those fucking tests…

"If I have to take one more of those fucking tests I’m going to take that box and shove it up your urethra and you can pee on the fucking stick for once," Derek snarls.

Stiles winces but clambers onto the bed without another glance at the box.

"I just wanna be sure, okay? We’ve been trying for so long and it’s frustrating sometimes," Stiles says, curling into Derek’s side and rubbing his palm in long sweeps up and down Derek’s sternum.

They’d been trying for a child for almost two years now, but it had taken them nine months to consult a doctor about why Derek wasn’t conceiving even though they hadn’t missed a single one of Derek’s every-other-full-moon heats. Apparently, though Derek’s heats were as regular as clockwork, his actual fertility was extremely sensitive to stress, and it had taken another eight months for them to figure out how to keep Derek’s stress levels low enough for his body to do its thing. Derek has had to learn to delegate most of his duties as Alpha werewolf of Beacon Hills to Stiles and the rest of the pack, but on the other hand he hasn’t felt this healthy and energetic since before the fire. He can practically feel his fertility, the way his body aches in ways it didn’t during his past heats.

Stiles’ hand slips lower to wrap around Derek’s cock and give it a firm pull. The heat builds in Derek’s groin, sharpening to a stinging  _need_  as Stiles’ hand slips lower to roll Derek’s balls, and then lower still to smear Derek’s leaking slickness along the feverish skin of his perineum. He’s so wet, fuck, so  _ready_.

Stiles is already there, kneeling between Derek’s spread thighs like he’d smelled Derek’s heat spiking even with his weak human nose. The press of the tip of his cock to Derek’s relaxed, slippery entrance is a relief and a tease, and then Stiles is pressing in, the shape and bulk of his cock achingly familiar.

Derek loses a few seconds, gets pulled into a heat haze like he used to when he was a teenager. After the fire, he’d thought that the new clarity that came during his heats had been a sign of maturity, but he realizes now, as he clutches desperately at Stiles’ shoulders to brace himself against the waves of pleasure, that it had been a sign that Kate had taken more from him than he’d thought.

Stiles hikes Derek’s legs up, folding them around his waist and changing the angle of his thrusts. He nails Derek’s prostate dead-on and Derek shouts, arching into Stiles as their sweat-slick bodies move together.

"We’re— _baby_ ," Stiles pants, curling down to kiss Derek’s slack mouth, “We’re gonna make a  _baby_."

Derek’s breath hitches. His heart clenches in his chest, knotted up with the kind of fierce, encompassing love he thought he’d never feel again after the fire. But Stiles,  _Stiles…_ Derek grabs Stiles’ head with both hands and forcibly deepens the kiss, moaning into it as Stiles’ swelling knot pulls at Derek’s rim.

Stiles whines into the kiss. “Derek, I’m gonna knot soon, gotta get you-"

Derek growls and shoves Stiles up into a kneeling position, then turns and sinks back down onto Stiles’ cock, both of them now upright with Derek’s back to Stiles’ chest. Stiles wraps his arms around Derek, one hand teasing a nipple that will someday swell with milk and the other stroking Derek’s leaking cock in counterpoint to his thrusts. It’s all Derek can do to to reach back and hold onto Stiles, his anchor, as orgasm crashes down on him. He comes and comes, jizz streaking out over the sheets as his hole clenches tightly around the base of Stiles’ knot.

The pressure triggers Stiles’ own orgasm, his knot swelling sharply and tying Derek in place as his body starts pumping come into Derek’s fertile body. His arms tighten around Derek’s torso in a bear hug as he ruts mindlessly through his long orgasm.

It’s Derek who lowers them to the mattress, tipping them onto their sides so they’re curled together; Stiles doesn’t buy the whole big spoon/little spoon thing, likening it to minestrone soup instead, when the peas get tucked into the shell pasta. It’s a very Stilesean idea, but Derek likes the imagery, likes being the pea to Stiles’ shell, and the parallel image of him being the shell to their baby’s pea.

Derek settles into the afterglow, enjoying the last few pulses of Stiles’ cock as Stiles comes down from his own orgasm. His had sweeps down Derek’s chest to his belly and Derek’s hand meets him there, their fingers tangling over where their baby will grow.

"We’re gonna have a  _baby_ ," Stiles whispers, awed. “Scott’s gonna be the best godfather ever."

"What." Derek instantly goes stiff. “Boyd is going to be the godfather."

"What the hell, man. I promised Scott way back when we were in—"

Well, so much for the afterglow.

&&&

Much later, Allison cleverly points out that there’s no law against a child having two godfathers. Boyd and Scott milk it, playacting a fake relationship at the baby shower while their wives egg them on from the background.

&&&


	8. Kinky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on [michellicopter](http://michellicopter.tumblr.com/)'s smokin' hot [art](http://michellicopter.tumblr.com/post/54300899609/lets-play-how-many-kinks-can-you-spot-ready-go).

Derek gasps and shudders, watching Stiles lift a come-slick hand to his mouth even as his cock pulses out its last few drops of come. The dildo buzzes relentlessly against his wrung out prostate and it’s all he can do to keep himself upright over Stiles’ thighs.

"Please," he whines, hips jerking from aftershocks and overstimulation.

"Hmmm?" Stiles says lazily, sucking Derek’s come from his sinfully gorgeous fingers. Derek’s cock rallies for a feeble twitch of interest.

“ _Please_ ," he begs.

"Please what?" Stiles drawls, laying back against the pillows and looking down his chest, admiring the gleaming lines of come. “Please fetch you your tea? Please wash your Toyota? Please buy a mountain ash paddle and spank your ass raw?"

Derek keens at the last suggestion, hips thrusting against air at the pain-pleasure torment of the vibrator against his prostate. “Please, please  _touch yourself_ ," Derek cries. _  
_

Stiles reaches down and pats the long ridge of his cock, then gives it a thoughtful tug through the fabric of his track pants.

"I dunno," he says doubtfully, eyebrows furrowing in theatrical disappointment. “I was thinking of fucking you with it after you came a second time, but I guess I could jerk off instead."

The breath whooshes out of Derek in a sharp “oh!" and he backpedals, “No, no, fuck me, I want you to fuck me."

"Cool," Stiles purrs, letting a hand play across his chest, smearing a line of come over his nipple. Derek watches with laser-like intensity. “Don’t be too long, or I’ll fall asleep."

"O-okay," Derek says, and his eyes roll up as he rocks his hips, focusing on the vibrations within him and the returning tide of pleasure. “Okay."


	9. Hold it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [shipsanddip](http://shipsanddip.tumblr.com/) prompted: edging is my fav so a bit edging (i.e orgasm control) and subby!needy!derek

The stopwatch Derek is clutching between trembling hands reads eight minutes and forty-three, forty-four, forty-five seconds. It’s barely half his previous record and already he thinks he won’t be able to hold out. Then again, when he’d set that record he’d thought he wouldn’t be able to hold out then, either, but he did, he  _held on_ , he broke his previous record and set a new one, and come hell, high water, or the second coming of Jesus, he’s going to do the same this time.

Stiles’ hand is relentless on his dick and relentlessly steady. His clever fingers know their art now, know how and where to touch to rile Derek up and just how hard to press to keep him there, poised on the brink of orgasm until Derek’s willpower gives in. And when it comes to Stiles, Derek has so little willpower…

The plastic creaks between Derek’s fingers and he deliberately loosens his grip one iota at a time until the device practically tumbles from his lax fingers. Ten minutes now, and eighteen, nineteen, twenty seconds. He can feel the muscles in his belly tighten and Stiles eases off, leading him back. His cock feels feverish even to him, fat with blood and hard with unsatisfied tension, the slow, even rub of Stiles’ hand inescapable like an itch that can’t be reached. Eleven minutes.

It’s ironic that Stiles was the one who suggested this, asked Derek to hold him down and do it to him. He’d lasted for about half an hour, they hadn’t really been counting, then Derek had gotten impatient and desperate and swallowed Stiles’ cock down to the bush, tipping Stiles over the edge. A few days later, Stiles had procured a set of sex toys made of mountain ash and given Derek the punishment of his life for breaking the rules. The memory of it still gives Derek an instant hard-on, even when he’s with Peter or either of the Argents.

Thirteen minutes and thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine seconds. Stiles doesn’t say a word, but Derek can sense his pride, smell his rising excitement as Derek’s last record inches closer. Derek clings to it, to Stiles’ approval and the happiness that Stiles feels when Derek succeeds, clings to it like he never clung to his anger and hate. Those things anchored him, yes, chained him and dragged him down, pinned him like a fly in a spider’s web, but Stiles’ pride is like a pair of wings, lifting him above the greedy demands of his instincts, freeing him in ways he’d forgotten he could be free.

Fifteen minutes ticks over into sixteen minutes and Derek is hanging on by the skin of his fangs. Only Stiles’ palpable happiness grounds him, tucking around him like a down comforter in winter. He clings to it desperately as the seconds tick by, as his abdomen trembles like a shivering chick and his toes curl tight.

Sixteen minutes and fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four.

There’s a burst of sweet spice, brown sugar and cardamom, pride and happiness and accomplishment sweeping over Derek and thickening with every second that Derek keeps holding on. It settles on him like a warm mist, soaking into his skin and filling him up with a sense of his own pride and accomplishment, happiness from having lived up to Stiles’ expectations.

It feels like breakthrough.

Derek relaxes, letting the stopwatch slip through his fingers to fall on the bed. He doesn’t need it anymore. Stiles’ hand slows to a stop.

"Congratulations, baby," Stiles says quietly, intimately. “What do you want for your reward?"

"Kisses, please."

Stiles lunges up the bed to deliver, interspersing languid, open-mouthed kisses with affectionate pecks and murmured ‘so proud’s that make Derek squirm with giddy pleasure.

"Gonna kiss you all over," Stiles promises. “From head to foot and everywhere in between."

"Yes, please," Derek answers dreamily.

"Then I’m gonna kiss your cock, lick it and suck on it the way I do your tongue."

Heat winds tightly in Derek’s groin. “Yes, please,  _please_ ,"

"And when you come I’m gonna savor it in my mouth. I’m gonna savor it because you worked so hard to keep it for me."

“ _Please_ ," Derek whines.

Stiles grins and begins dropping kisses all over Derek’s face. “So well behaved for me," he says. “So good and perfect, my perfect little mate."

He howls softly, a crooning ‘auooooo’, and Derek follows the sound home.


	10. Bad dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE BOTTOM!DEREK GAMES with Ash and Nat
> 
> Round 1: Spanking

"PUP!"

Pup flinches, but obediently answers his owner’s call, trudging guiltily into the bathroom, where Pup (maybe a little deliberately, okay definitely deliberately, owner’s just been so busy lately and Pup misses the attention) left all his dirty clothes laying on the floor.

Sure enough, there’s owner, arms akimbo and leg jiggling impatiently. Strewn all over the clean tiles and mats are Pup’s muddy things.

Owner gestures to them and says, sharply, " _Well?"_

Pup whines, kneels, and gathers them up, carrying them the few steps to the hamper.

Owner sighs. He looks tired these days, filling in for his father as interim Sheriff until an election can be called. Maybe this was a bad idea.

"You know what to do," Owner says, gesturing at the bed.

Pup nods and drops to his hands and knees next to the bed, dragging out the bigger of the boxes of toys that his owner keeps. There are two wooden paddles inside, among other things, and Pup lays his fingers on the cherry wood paddle, looking hopefully up at his owner.

Owner shakes his head, tired and disappointed. Crushed, Pup lifts out the mountain ash paddle and puts it on the bed before returning the box to its place under the bed. Dust puffs up and Pup sneezes.

"We don’t earn playtime with bad behavior," Owner says, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling Pup up to lay across his thighs. “Especially when you do the bad behavior just to provoke me. Twenty swats for being a bad Pup, but if you’re _very_  good for the rest of the evening, I’ll let you suck me before bed. Okay?"

Pup whines and nods and braces himself for the first hit. It stings across his bare left cheek, followed by a strike to the right cheek. Owner goes back and forth, methodical, ignoring the way Pup whines and holding him down when he squirms. After twenty impersonal swats, Pup is keening, tears of pain and shame dripping onto the carpet as drops of precome drip from Pup’s engorged prick.

"Oh, Pup," Owner sighs. He draws Pup up onto the bed and into his arms. “I know I haven’t been paying attention to you, but if you’re feeling lonely, I’d rather you just tell me I’m being a bad owner than act out. You’d been doing so well lately."

Pup whines and licks Owner’s jaw apologetically. Owner kisses Pup’s nose and lets Pup rest after his punishment, combing his fingers through Pup’s hair as the evening wears on. Next time, when his owner is busy, Pup will be just as selfless as Owner, returning Owner’s endless patience and generosity with some of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After 3x08, punishment kink is suddenly a good deal more relevant to my interests.


	11. Stiles' fucking mouth, okay?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE BOTTOM!DEREK GAMES with Ash and Nat
> 
> Round 2: Rimming

Even after three years of being together, Stiles is still amazed that Derek is willing to have sex with him. Of course, it’d taken three years after Derek’s release from Kate Argent’s crazy torture basement for them to get together, and another year after that for them to start having sex, but  _still_ , six years at the mercy of psychopath Kate and her physical, emotional, and sexual tortures are somehow pushed aside when Derek leans into Stiles’ space, slants his mouth across Stiles', presses his tongue into Stiles’ mouth with aggressively clear intent.

Stiles drops one last kiss on the smooth and spit-slicked stretch of skin where Derek’s penis and testicles used to hang, teases the narrow slit where his urethra opens, and gently nudges Derek over onto his belly.

"Yes," Derek hisses, eagerly spreading his thighs to make space for Stiles. “I want your mouth, put your tongue in me."

And okay, maybe part of the reason Derek is willing to let Stiles touch his body, marked in ways even werewolf healing can’t repair, is because Stiles apparently gives the most amazing rimjobs? Well, whatever makes Derek happy makes Stiles happy, and Stiles loves giving Derek rimjobs anyway, so…

"Your  _mouth_ ," Derek snaps impatiently, glaring over his shoulder.

Stiles grunts, spreading Derek’s cheeks and diving in to lap up the length of the crease, coarse black hair tickling the pad of his tongue. He gives it a few more broad laps before zeroing in, focusing his lips and tongue on the pucker of his anus. Derek moans and pushes into it, chest sloping down to the mattress like a cat mid-stretch.

"Yeah," he chants, “Yeah, yeah."

Stiles teases the pucker with the pointed tip of his tongue, flicking across the fleshy ridges of skin and prodding the center experimentally.

Derek opens easily around his tongue, already loose from drawn-out pleasure, and Stiles presses his face deeper into Derek’s cleft, forcing his tongue deeper. Encouraged by Derek’s eager moans and grunts, Stiles wedges his hand in next to his cheek and pushes a finger in alongside his tongue. Derek’s inner muscles clench at the new intrusion, then clench again when Stiles hones in on his prostate, rubbing it firmly.

His other hand slips under to Derek’s front, tracing firm circles around Derek’s urethra. The stretch of hairless skin there is sensitive like Derek’s cock had probably been, werewolf healing restoring sensation, if not structure, and Stiles takes ruthless advantage of it, massaging and rubbing even as he darts his tongue in and out of Derek’s hole in a parody of fucking.

Derek is heaving breaths like a bellows, moaning on every exhale and gasping on every inhale as Stiles mercilessly grinds on his prostate and the skin around his urethra. Stiles pulls back just enough to nip teasingly at the lax ring of muscle, and the brief sting of pain makes Derek jump, so he does it again.

Derek doesn’t come, but Stiles can tell he’s close, so he whips out his trump card. With his finger, he presses down on the rim of Derek’s hole, pulling it toward his perineum. Then he hooks his tongue over the opposite edge so he’s holding Derek’s rim open with his finger and tongue. He pulls, stretching Derek open, letting his teeth skim over the stretched ring of muscle.

Derek gasps, grunts, and curls in on himself, dripping prostatic fluid on the bedspread. Stiles eases his tongue free, leaving his finger inside to massage the come out of Derek’s prostate and watches, spellbound, as the puddle between Derek’s knees spreads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun backstory: Stiles is a P.I. and the one who discovered that Kate was keeping Derek imprisoned. Through some gutsy gumshoeing, Derek was freed, but not before Kate got her last cheap shot in (cutting off Derek's penis and testicles). Cue hospitalization, trial of the century, we the jury find the defendant guilty on all charges, life in prison with no chance of parole, therapy, civil case pending, interim homelessness. Deeply mistrustful of basically everyone, (except Sheriff Stilinski, because who doesn't adore Sheriff Stilinski), Derek ends up going to Stiles, the first person he saw after six years of nobody but Kate, and they end up living and eventually working together in a sort of Holmes and Watson situation. 
> 
> Actually, exactly like Holmes and Watson, because this is my Sherlock AU.


	12. I dare you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE BOTTOM!DEREK GAMES with Ash and Nat
> 
> Round 3: Face fucking

Derek is definitely regretting this. He is regretting this with all his teenage heart and wondering if he can sneak out without the lacrosse team finding out that he welched on a dare. He pulls at his hair, suddenly feeling claustrophobic in the toilet stall. It would turn out okay, right? Sure, what little social status he’s managed to cling to would evaporate and the lacrosse team would make his life hell for the rest of high school, but that’s gotta be better than-

Derek freezes as the door to the next stall over swings open. Through the hole in the wall between the two stalls, he can see a man moving, a stranger unzipping his fly and pulling his dick out. The man steps further forward and the sound of piss pouring into the toilet echoes in the tile-and-metal bathroom. Derek licks his lips with a dry tongue, pinches them between his teeth, and shifts to kneel in front of the glory hole, mouth and chin showing through the cut-out circle.

The man doesn’t seem to notice at first, finishing up and wiping, but the shuffling of his clothes pauses. Derek’s heartbeat pounds in his head and he clenches his eyes shut, wondering if the man will use his mouth or leave him alone. There’s nothing for a long moment, and then something soft and body-warm touches the slack curve of Derek’s lip. Derek blinks his eyes open to check.

It’s just a finger. Derek wonders if he should be relieved, and then the stranger asks, “Are you sure?"

Derek gasps. He knows that voice, hears it every day during Brit Lit, fantasizes about it at night, been given so many inappropriate boners by that voice that he’s passed right through embarrassment into annoyance. 

It’s Mr. Stilinski’s voice. Stiles Stilinski, Brit Lit teacher, Sheriff’s son, and object of Derek’s longstanding crush.

"Yes," Derek breathes. “Yeah."

"Okay," Mr. Stilinski says, and the finger is replaced by his half-hard cock.

Derek sucks it eagerly into his mouth. He’s practiced with Laura’s dildo, the one their parents don’t know about, all the while imagining Mr. Stilinski fucking into his mouth. But now, having the actual thing, it’s so much better, so much richer and amazing. Derek can’t get over the heat and taste of him, the way he swells to hardness on Derek’s tongue, the way he fills Derek’s mouth.

"Fuck," Mr. Stilinski hisses. “Fuck, you’re good at that."

Derek preens, sucking hard at the head before going deep, pressing his face against the metal partition separating them. He swallows and breathes through his nose until his gag reflex subsides, then pulls back, only to go deep again. This time, he stays. He presses his face against the metal and moans. When Mr. Stilinski inches a little deeper, Derek moans again, trying to show his approval. 

It only takes two small, rocking thrusts for Mr. Stilinski to get it, and he starts fucking Derek’s mouth in earnest, plunging in and out with measured but deep thrusts.

Derek loves it, lets his eyes droop closed as Mr. Stilinski uses his mouth. His dick is hard as a crowbar in his pants and he adjusts it so he can focus on pleasuring Mr. Stilinski instead. He moans wantonly, leaning against the metal barrier, and when Mr. Stilinski starts to speed up, he bobs his head in counterpoint to Mr. Stilinski’s thrusts, deep throating him on every thrust.

The first burst of Mr. Stilinski’s come goes straight down Derek’s throat, but Derek catches the rest on his tongue, milking the length of Mr. Stilinski’s cock with his hand as he sucks greedily at the head. He’s reluctant to let go, to lose the feel and taste and scent of Mr. Stilinski, but his teacher hisses and pulls back as his cock softens, oversensitive.

Derek watches through the hole as Mr. Stilinski tucks himself in and zips up.

"Thanks," Mr. Stilinski says, sounding genuinely grateful. He presses his finger to Derek’s spit-slick and swollen lip in a mirror of his previous gesture.

Derek smiles around it, and this time it’s Mr. Stilinski who gasps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crap, more 3x08 feels. No, what are you talking about, I'm not crying, it's just raining inside my house.


	13. In Teen Wolf AU, harem has /you/

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [curlsabroad](http://curlsabroad.tumblr.com/) prompted: Skinny dipping in a hot tub at night, then going outside to let the steam curl off their bodies and cool down. Intercrucial sex or a bit of cock worship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this gets confusing, the Stileses are as such:
> 
> Stiles 1: aggressive, perceptive, bossy, the guy with a plan  
> Stiles 2: protective, selfless, selfish, impulsive  
> Stiles 3: guilty, quiet, hesitant, intense

Stiles curls into Derek’s left side, sinking a little lower on the jacuzzi’s bench and keeping a protective eye on a second Stiles while the third Stiles, kneeling up over Derek from his right side, aggressively kisses him. Derek arches into the biting, sucking press of mouths and skates his hand over the miles of naked skin that steam gently in the open evening air.

"Y’know," the protective Stiles says, “I get that we’re supposed to be laying low and hiding that stupid cursed teakettle, but this feels a lot more like vacation than hiding. Who knew the Argents would spring for a luxurious hidey-hole away from home, right?"

The second stiles, sitting across from them in the jacuzzi, looks guiltily away from them, shoulders hunching in.

The aggressive Stiles drags himself away from Derek’s mouth and looks at the guilty Stiles. “C’mere," he says. “He wants all of us, including you."

Guilty Stiles shakes his head and curls in on himself. The protective Stiles bristles.

"Hey, leave him alone," the protective Stiles snaps, slipping off the bench to stand between the two. “Let him do what he wants."

The aggressive Stiles squares off against him, but before he can instigate  _yet another_ fight between them, Derek drags him back down to the bench and hooks a foot behind the protective Stiles’ knee, pulling it out from under him. He tips into the water with a flail and a splash and surfaces with an outraged splutter.

"Stop fucking  _fighting_ ," Derek snaps at the two, eyes flashing red. The aggressive Stiles snorts but settles back into Derek’s right side and turns perceptive eyes on his shy counterpart. The protective Stiles, lacking that perception but full up on selflessness and impulsivity, wades away and drops down next to the guilty Stiles, draping an arm over his hunched shoulders even as the guilty Stiles eyes the empty space at Derek’s left with the kind of longing hunger that Derek used to see sometimes before he and Stiles got their shit together. Derek softens his expression and holds his hand out.

"Would you come sit next to me? It would make me happy if you would."

The shy Stiles looks from Derek’s hand to his face and back again. Derek hopes he’s made the right move; this Stiles is skittish and hard to read, his face quiet without being blank even as he exudes so much guilt that even Derek chokes on it sometimes. He wonders what Stiles did, or what Stiles thinks he did, that he blames himself enough for the guilt to have earned itself a physical body when that stupid cursed kettle split Stiles into three.

Apparently Derek has struck the right tone, because the guilty Stiles lets himself be reeled in. He tucks himself tightly against Derek’s side, like he’s trying to hold onto him with his whole body. Protective Stiles rolls his eyes and follows, dropping onto Derek’s lap.

They all lean into him, their feelings for him the one thing they all have in common, and Derek lets his head loll back onto the edge of the jacuzzi. 

If Stiles had been himself, all in one piece, they probably would be having sex by now, unable to resist the lure of bare flesh and privacy, but somehow being split into three has mellowed him. Maybe it’s because their individual attraction to Derek is spread thin amongst the three of them. Derek doesn’t know. But there’s no denying the sensual intimacy of the four of them curled together, bare skin on bare skin all submerged in hot, frothy water.

Derek, penned in by Stileses, drowses like a cat in a sunbeam.

The aggressive, perceptive one taps him to awareness a while later. Derek feels like cooked jelly.

"We should get out. We’re getting overheated," he says.

Derek nods and he slips out from under Derek’s arm, climbing out of the jacuzzi onto the deck. His sleek, wet body billows steam in the cool air as he gets the towels and Derek can barely tear his eyes away to climb out after after the other two Stileses. Only now, there’s three wet Stileses all steaming and wet and beautiful and  _staring at Derek’s hardening cock_.

The aggressive Stiles smirks, standing next to the towels but making no move to pick them up. “Maybe we should air dry," he suggests.

The protective Stiles is already shamelessly stroking his dick, eyeing Derek like he’s dinner and dessert all on one plate. The quiet Stiles stares at Derek with a silent intensity that makes his skin prickle.

Derek shivers under the weight of their collective stare and the muscles of his ass clench in anticipation. “We’re not having sex out here," he says.

The shameless one rolls his eyes expansively and grabs him by the hand, dragging him toward the house. Derek trails after him, wreathed in the steam still rising off Stiles’ body.

"We’re totally getting a jacuzzi," the aggressive Stiles says as he slips into the house, ushering the quiet Stiles in before him.

The Stiles pulling Derek toward the bedroom crows, “Aw, yeah."

The third Stiles doesn’t say anything, but when Derek glances back over his shoulder, he’s smiling just slightly. He peels away into the attached bath when they get into the bedroom and emerges with a towel in hand.

"We shouldn’t get the bed wet," he says. The two other Stileses converge on him and start rubbing him down, playfully tussling as they get him, and then each other, dry.

It’s bizarrely arousing to watch. Of course, the sight of Stiles naked is always arousing to Derek, but seeing this much Stiles, three whole copies of him, naked and wrestling with a towel, well, Derek understands the whole fascination with women wrestling in mud a little better now. And of course the aggressive Stiles, keen-eyed as ever, keeps glancing over at Derek and then touching one of the other Stileses in a way that is decidedly less innocent than he’s pretending to be.

At some unknown signal, their heads turn in unison to Derek, still dripping lukewarm water on the carpet. The impulsive one lunges first, towel in hand. The other two flank Derek, penning him in again, and suddenly he’s the one being manhandled, the vocal Stileses laughing and the quiet one smiling as they briskly rub him down. Their rough swipes with the damp towel are interspersed with caresses and kisses and, from the shameless one, bites.

When the quiet Stiles decides they’re all sufficiently dry, he leans into Derek, followed by the other two, who lean and shove until Derek topples over onto the mattress. The weight of them landing on him forces the breath from his lungs.

"Hey," the bossy Stiles says to the protective one, “get the lube." And then he arranges Derek to his liking, the guilty, quiet Stiles laying beneath the shelter of Derek’s bulk. His fingers tentatively trace the definition of Derek’s chest and shoulders, like they’re not sure of their welcome, no matter how tenderly Derek kisses him.

There are hands on his ass, lube-slick fingers dipping into his relaxed hole to stretch him. Two more hands squeeze into the space behind his balls, smearing lube on the upper insides of his thighs and along his perineum. Derek gasps and ruts against the belly of the Stiles beneath him.

One of the Stileses, he doesn’t know which, shifts around to sit just above the quiet Stiles’ head. His and Derek’s bodies are offset just enough that Derek can reach the other Stiles’ cock with his mouth and he sucks eagerly on the head as the Stiles behind him pushes three fingers into Derek’s ass. He makes an annoyed ‘tch’ when he sees the other Stiles feeding Derek his cock.

"A+ teamwork," he snarks. He reaches under Derek with one hand, holding Derek’s balls up out of the way as the Stiles under Derek guides his cock into the narrow gap along his perineum.

"Pshyeah," the impulsive Stiles says, guiding Derek’s head up and down. “Like you expected me to wait around for you two to get in on this."

Derek moans as the aggressive Stiles presses his cock into Derek’s slicked hole. He squeezes his thighs tightly and the Stiles under him gasps against his collarbone and plants his feet to rut up into the tight gap.

There are some fits and starts as they get into a rhythm, their six hands tugging and shoving Derek here and there, rubbing up his sides, along his spine, tracing the whorls of his tattoo. The quiet, somber Stiles is especially attentive to Derek’s nipples, rolling them between his clever fingers.

The rest of the world goes away, fading out of Derek’s awareness until there’s just him and and the three cocks pounding into him. He’s never had sex like this before—the kind that makes him feel sheltered, safe enough to let himself be buoyed up on the rising swell of pleasure—and he knows that as much as he misses the sharp eyes, giving heart, and shadowed soul of  _his_  Stiles, he’s going to miss this too, once it’s gone.

Derek’s thighs ache with the strain of holding them closed, but he can tell they’re all getting close. The Stiles in his mouth starts face fucking him and Derek lets him, watching with hooded, unfocused eyes as his cock drives in and out, shiny with Derek’s spit. When his cock swells ominously, Derek takes him deep, burying his nose in Stiles’ wiry pubes and swallowing as he comes down Derek’s throat. His fingers clench and relax in Derek’s hair with each pulse, and then Stiles eases Derek off his sensitive cock, guiding his head down to kiss the somber Stiles with slack, swollen lips.

The Stiles fucking his ass starts pounding hard, slamming over his prostate with each sharp lunge. Derek moans and keens into the quiet Stiles’ mouth and grinds his dripping cock against his flat belly. A hand worms its way between them, and with a few rough pulls, drags Derek over the edge, his body flexing and bowing as he streaks white come all up the Stiles’ chest. The bossy Stiles slams his cock into Derek once, twice more, then comes, gripping Derek’s hips hard enough to bruise a human.

Derek, limp and shivering with aftershocks, lets himself be rolled onto his back, his legs spread and lifted by the two other Stileses as the third slips between them, guiding his cock into Derek’s still-twitching hole. He fucks Derek gently, with deep, even thrusts that make Derek tremble. Finally he, too, comes, without much fanfare, filling Derek’s already come-slick hole with more of the same.

The three of them fuss over Derek, wiping him down, kissing and touching and murmuring at him. They burrow their way under the covers and Derek, wrung out in all the best ways, falls asleep under a heap of Stileses, wondering what tomorrow will bring.


	14. Homoerotic Buddy Cop verse Part 1: Nice to meetcha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deaton will forever maintain that he was not of sound mind and body when he made the decision to pair up Stilinski and Hale.

"And this," Supervisor Deaton intones, drawing to a halt in front of one of the workstations with a little click of his heels, “is Datamancer Stilinski. You’ll be working with him from this point on."

Derek gives the datamancer’s station a perfunctory once-over. It is, like the others’ around him, a concave, floor-to-ceiling screen cluttered with dozens of open browsers, some panning through walls of text, others running videos, one or two flicking through social networking sites. Stilinski sits with his back to them, but his hands hover outside the arms of his chair, subtly twitching and flexing. He taps the ring and pinky of his right hand together, the circuitry of his manip gloves shining through the black cloth under the harsh fluorescents above, and on the screen, a new window pops up.

Derek blinks. It’s his personnel file, and completely uncensored to boot. Deaton pointedly turns away from it, perfectly aware that nobody on this floor has the security clearance to view personnel files in their entirety but apparently perfectly willing to turn a blind eye to proof of his subordinates’ rule-breaking.

Stilinski curls his right ring finger and the file obediently disappears. Just to show off, then. Fine. Derek’s worked with worse.

"Stilinski has your case file and I’ve already authorized the standard field equipment for you, Operative Hale, which you can pick up at your leisure," Deaton says. He glances between them. “Best of luck, and do  _try_  to keep property damage down."

Stilinski snorts. Deaton doesn’t roll his eyes, precisely, but his body language seems to suggest that he would, and expansively too, if his professionalism could bend far enough to permit it. He walks away, almost perfectly silent, even to Derek’s werewolf hearing.

Stilinski’s fingers curl into loose fists and all the movement on his screen pauses at the signal. He turns his customized office chair, peeling his manips off, and Derek’s breath fucking  _catches_ at his first glimpse of the datamancer. Like all other mancers, he has no pupil or iris, just solidly colored scleras, a warm caramel brown that suits him unreasonably well. Derek wonders whimsically if his moles taste like dark chocolate and his skin like marshmallows.

"Welcome aboard, dude," Stilinski drawls. “Call me Stiles. You ready to get this party started?"

Derek swallows down the inappropriate rush of attraction and nods. “What’ve we got?"

Stiles grins, slow and broad with bubblegum pink lips, and Derek thinks he’s maybe made a  ~~terrible~~   ~~wonderful~~  terrible mistake somewhere along the line.


	15. Homoerotic Buddy Cop verse Part 2: Getting to know all about you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good thing werewolves can't get diabetes.

"Here you go, dude," Stiles says, dropping into the passenger’s seat and tapping Derek’s shoulder with a Starbucks coffee cup. Derek takes it absently, not looking away from their target and raises it to take a sip—

Only to choke when what comes out is most decidedly  _not_  liquid.

"What the hell?" he coughs, popping the lid off. There’s no coffee in it at all, just white sugar. “I said  _coffee_ , Stiles. Not one of your dumbass pranks."

"Please," Stiles snorts, sipping something that is probably actual coffee. “Don’t think I don’t know your dirty secret."

Derek glares. “What secret."

Stiles smirks, all smug and punchable. “That you drink decaf, Hale. You don’t actually want caffeine. You just want a convenient hot liquid in which to suspend massive amounts of sugar."

"So what," Derek snaps, embarrassed, “You got me straight sugar for laughs? How the hell am I supposed to eat this, anyway?"

Stiles’ eyebrows climb as he blinks slowly. “Well, first of all, I thought I’d just cut out the middleman. And second of all, you were supposed to throw it out like the huffy diva you are, not actually  _eat_ it. But I’ve got a spoon if you want it."

He pulls a spoon and a bundle of napkins out of his pocket and holds them out. There’s no mockery in his expression for once, not even the general amusement Derek is used to seeing; his expression is open but bland, like Stiles is offering a spoon for Derek to eat soup instead of sugar.

Derek takes the spoon, not quite sure what to think.

"So, I got Danny to send me our guy’s phone records, but the guy’s a total text whore, so I’ll need to go back to the office to analyze it all—"

Derek sneaks a little sugar while Stiles talks, just a few grains in the bowl of the spoon, but when Stiles’ expression doesn’t so much as flicker, he goes back for a bigger spoonful, relaxing in his seat as he keeps an eye on their target and an ear on Stiles.


	16. The obligatory fisting porn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [sanhaim](http://sanhaim.tumblr.com/) prompted: They’re trying fisting for the first time and Derek is loving EVERY second of it.

"Well, Mr. Hale, that’s about it for today. Do you have any more questions before your prostate exam?"

Derek mutely shakes his head, grateful once again for the looseness of his gown as his cock thickens at the mere mention of the exam. The doctor guides him to stand and bend over the exam bed with his feet apart.

"I’m going to use my finger to examine your prostate through the wall of your colon," the doctor says with clinical impartiality. Derek can hear his gloves rustling as he applies lubricant to his finger. “Is that okay?"

"Yeah," Derek grunts. He ducks his head, trying to hide the blush he can feel heating his face and throat. If he’s lucky, the doctor won’t notice how hard he’s gotten.

There’s a touch of a finger against his rim, but it hesitates.

"I notice that there’s already lubricant here." The doctor delicately traces the rim of Derek’s hole. “There’s also some irritation and swelling. Have you recently had anal intercourse?"

"No," Derek whispers, embarrassed. “Just a toy."

"I see. Well, make sure you wash your toys well with soap and hot water. There’s a lot of bacteria inside our bodies that’s meant to stay in there."

The doctor slips his finger in easily, Derek’s sphincter still loose from the toy. He prods at Derek’s prostate and Derek grunts, instinctively pushing back onto the doctor’s finger.

"Are you alright, Mr. Hale?" the doctor asks. He lays a warm hand on the small of Derek’s back.

"Ye-yeah," Derek breathes. But when the doctor begins inspecting his prostate, tracing the shape and testing the feel of it, he clamps down around the doctor’s finger and grinds down shamelessly.

"Mr. Hale," the doctor sighs. “If you could please hol-"

"More," Derek whines. He pushes his rear back and rolls his hips, wanting more of that finger on his prostate.

The doctor takes a slow breath and says, “That would be highly unprofessional of me," but he’s already leaning into Derek’s space. Derek can smell the arousal wafting through his black slacks and white coat.

"Please," Derek begs. “I won’t tell, I promise."

"No," the doctor purrs into Derek’s ear. He drapes himself on Derek’s back, pressing him down onto the exam bed as he slides another finger in. It had already been slicked with lube. “No, you won’t."

Derek moans and arches, pushing his ass greedily into the doctor’s hand. It’s not- it’s not  _enough_.

"More!"

"Shhh," the doctor soothes. He gently places his free hand over Derek’s mouth. “You have to be quiet, understand? This is a doctor’s office. Wouldn’t want one of the nurses to walk by and hear you begging for it, would you?"

Derek shakes his head and groans into the doctor’s hand, the sound smothered by his gloved palm.

"You’re doing very well, Mr. Hale," the doctor says. “Ready for more?"

Derek whines and nods desperately, cupping a hand over the doctor’s to help keep the sound from escaping. The fingers slip free as the doctor rearranges his hand, and then he’s filling Derek, sliding his fingers into Derek’s eager hole and stretching him wide, wide-

"That’s-" Derek gasps. That is  _not_  three fingers. His knees feel shaky and he locks them before he can slide to the floor.

"One, two, three, four," the doctor says, wiggling the tip of each finger in turn. “How are you doing, Mr. Hale?"

"Good," he pants into the doctor’s palm.

"Not too much?"

"No. It feels- I like it. It’s just. Good."

“‘It’s just good’?" the doctor asks, ominously bland.

Then Derek feels it, the doctor’s thumb slipping in alongside his fingers, the ‘good’ warming to a hot, stinging stretch as the doctor slowly presses in, the ridge of his knuckles coming up against Derek’s rim. Derek squirms, not prepared for the intensity, and he claws at the surface of the exam bed, desperate for something to hold onto.

"Breathe with me," the doctor says calmly, and counts out cycles of inhales and exhales. Derek forces himself to follow them. He’s shaky at first, gasping and stuttering his way through the cycles, but the doctor keeps counting, steady and patient. Eventually, Derek’s hands relax on the exam bed.

"Bear down for me," the doctor says. Derek does, exhaling noisily. There’s a moment when the pain overcomes the pleasure, but the doctor is efficient, pushing through until his knuckles and the heel of his palm slip through Derek’s sphincter. And then there’s relief, the strained ring of muscle closing around the doctor’s narrower wrist. Derek breathes through it, focusing on the flow of air in his lungs instead of the almost unbearable fullness in his ass.

"Congratulations, Mr. Hale," the doctor murmurs into Derek’s ear. Derek turns his head and the tip of the doctor’s nose swipes over Derek’s cheekbone. “You took it all."

He barely hears the words. The heel of the doctor’s hand is a constant pressure on Derek’s prostate. Derek can’t help but roll his hips, experimenting with the flex of the doctors’s hand inside of him. It moves with him for the most part, but the way it slides against his insides is… intense. The doctor turns his hand just so, fitting the base of his thumb against Derek’s prostate and Derek arches into it, rolling his hips to chase that pressure and friction.

The doctor guides them down, his arm wrapped tight around Derek’s waist, lowering him until Derek’s shaking knees hit the floor. The movement changes the position of the doctor’s hand and Derek grinds into it, clinging to the side of the exam bed and keening into the doctor’s hand, still covering his mouth.

"You seem to be in some distress, Mr. Hale," the doctor says. His voice is just a shade too husky to be purely professional. His hand peels away from Derek’s mouth. “What can I do to help you?"

"Touch," Derek gasps between moans. “Touch my- touch my cock, please, please!"

"You would like for me to stimulate your erection?" the doctor asks. His hand slides under Derek’s gown and around to his front, his index finger and thumb forming a loose ring around the base of Derek’s leaking cock. “How would you like me to do that?"

Derek grips the side of the bed, struggling to focus. “H-hold it."

The doctor loosely curls his hand over the shaft, letting it rest in the palm of his hand.

"Gr-rip," Derek prompts. The hand curls until the doctor’s fingers close over it in a firm hold.

"Slide it up, and then the head. Rub the head." The hand obeys, dragging up Derek’s shaft. The doctor’s thumb swipes firmly over the head, rubbing the frenulum, dipping into the urethra, and tracing the ridge of the corona. Derek hunches over like he’s been gut-punched and presses his face against the side of the bed, gasping for breath.

"Down. And then aga-again."

The doctor’s hand slides to the base of Derek’s cock, pauses, and begins to repeat the cycle, sliding up, rubbing over the head, and sliding down. At the same time, the hand still in Derek’s ass starts to twist in tandem.

Derek, overwhelmed, arches, his spine bowing as he tips back onto his heels, head thrown back and eyes gazing blindly at the ceiling. The doctor swipes his hand one last time over the head of Derek’s cock and he comes, mouth open and teeth bared in a silent roar as the whole world whites out around him.

&&&

He’s still on the bedroom floor when he comes to, but Stiles is there with him, spooning him from behind as he pets Derek’s sweaty chest. He’s hard, the hot ridge of his cock pressed against Derek’s asscheek, but when Derek shifts, he holds Derek still, grounding him with the simple press of his palm over Derek’s heart and his lips at Derek’s nape.

"You really weren’t kidding about the doctor fantasy," he says fondly, nuzzling Derek’s hairline. “I thought you were going to come with just one finger in you."

Derek grunts lazily.

"And don’t worry about this," Stiles adds, grinding his cock against Derek’s aching ass. “You can make it up to me tomorrow morning with some sexy maid roleplay."

Crap. Derek hates wearing heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek may hate the heels, but he kinda likes the skirt. He _really_ likes the feather duster.


	17. Homoerotic Buddy Cop verse Part 3: On the job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek may not understand how Stilinski does what he does, but he definitely appreciates it. In many, many ways.

"Aw yes," Stiles crows, hopping out of the car and all but sprinting toward the library. “Fucking love libraries."

Derek trails along in his wake. They’re pressed for time, hunting down a librarian turned wendigo, but the first thing Stiles had done after reading the case file was to insist that they stop at the librarian’s place of employment even though it had already been thoroughly picked over by the Bureau.

"The thing about public libraries," Stiles explains, flashing his badge at the girl at the desk, “is that the books  _want_  to share. Private libraries keep their secrets, but public, especially circulating, libraries will spill their guts to anyone who’ll walk by slow enough to hear."

Derek supposes that he doesn’t have any room to talk, since he’s not a datamancer, but when Stiles starts to turn in circles in the open, airy space, he can’t help but roll his eyes.

"Keep doing that and you’re going to get dizzy," he says blandly. “If you puke I’m leaving you here."

Stiles pauses and wobbles, then glares at Derek. “Dude, do I distract you when you’re doing your werewolfy thing?"

"Yes," Derek says.

Stiles’ mouth works but for once no snark comes out. “Well, shut up while I commune with the data, okay?"

Derek huffs and rolls his eyes, but settles in to wait, focusing on his own senses.

Stiles is a beacon of sensation, a vivid blur of sound and scent and color. There’s candy in his pockets. Beyond that are the patrons, many of whom are staring at them. There’s the ominpresent scent of books, vanilla like ice cream seeping into every surface, inanimate and animate. Their wendigo bleeds the same smell, noticeable even under the stink of blood. Electricity hums through the lights and computers. Heartbeats thrum. Blood rushes, digestion gurgles. The plants in the corners breathe.

Something stirs at the very edges of Derek’s senses. He turns his head this way and that, trying to pin it down, but it surrounds him, like the sound of the autumn wind rustling the dying leaves when he jogs through the forests back home. He expands his hearing to the limit but the sensation stays distant. Scent yields the same non-result. He pulls them back, not wanting to overwhelm himself, and the odd presence remains.

It feels familiar, buzzing at the edges of his awareness, and when Derek turns to face Stiles, that buzzing is magnified thousandsfold.

The sensory noise snaps Derek out of his daze like a sucker punch to the face and he reels his senses back in. He rubs his eyes even though they’re not the problem; all his senses tingle and feel strangely spotty, the same way his eyes get when he’s looked directly at the sun.

Stiles is standing perfectly still. He would look like a statue if not for the faint twitching of his fingers, an ingrained habit from using the manip gloves. Around the edges of his outline, the air seems to shimmer, and Derek wonders if what he’s seeing is a datamancer in full dive. He hadn’t known that was even possible with data sources as primitive as books.

A handful of minutes pass, and the buzzing fades out of his senses’ reach. Stiles blinks, blinks again, and turns to Derek with a triumphant grin. Not for the first time, Derek wonders what Stiles sees when he looks at him, if he can read Derek’s DNA right off his skin, if the endless wounds that his healing factor has absorbed are somehow archived in the tissues.

"This library has a disproportionately large number of books on spiders, so I now know everything I never wanted to know about the freakish things. But I also know that there’s an exhibit on spiders currently on display at the museum. Let’s go, Lassie," Stiles chirps, plucking a hard candy from his pocket and tossing it at Derek like it’s a fucking  _treat._ (Aside from the fact that it kinda is.)

"So our wendigo librarian likes spiders?" Derek asks, unwrapping the candy as they head out. Fake cherry and Stiles-scent explode in his mouth and Derek rolls the candy around on his tongue to savor the flavors.

Stiles shudders. “More than just likes. But if you really want to know, ask me when you need to lose your appetite as fast as possible."

They clamber back into the car, which is starting to smell less like a random mix of Bureau employees and more like  _them_ , just  _them_ , and wonders if he should ask anyway and use the undoubtedly horrifying story to squash his libido when it gets unruly. He glances at Stiles, who is already pulling up the museum’s website on his tablet.

Maybe not, though.


	18. The Loft scene, revisited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompted: Alpha stiles/human derek + knotting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in an AU where the Stilinski and Hale families are swapped. Stiles was the dumb kid who got snared by Kate and his mom was the one who died in the fire. Meanwhile, Derek is Scott's best friend and it's Laura who drags the two of them out that night and gets herself bit.

Derek paces the length of the bare living room, not for the first time wishing that Stiles would actually buy basic furniture for his empty house instead of leaving Derek to sew up the oozing wound in his side by only the orange glow of the streetlights that comes in through the big picture windows. He checks his phone again, but there’s no new messages, only confirmation from Laura saying that she got his text about Stiles being alive.

_Well_ , Derek thinks, sliding down to sit on the hardwood floor next to Stiles’ unconscious body,  _at least the water works_.

Derek falls asleep at some point, but wakes to the image of Stiles leaning over him, his big hands gently tucking Stiles’ worn, brown leather jacket around him. Stiles pauses, and Derek thinks he looks like something out of a museum, shadows limned in garish orange light.

"Hey buddy," Stiles whispers. “Sorry to wake you. Thanks for sewing me up, though."

Derek sits up and brown leather slips down to pool in his lap. “Did you heal?"

Stiles ducks his head to look and prods at the awful wound, looking more like a kid picking a scab than the big bad alpha of Beacon Hills’ ragtag werewolf pack. “Not yet, but it’s getting there."

"Sorry it’s a mess," Derek says sheepishly. He plucks at the leather jacket and absently arranges it over his legs.

"I guess your embroidery could use a little work, but no complaints from this quarter." Stiles tilts his head to look out the windows. “You should probably get home before your uncle the deputy sheriff initiates a manhunt."

Derek shakes his head and reaches out, hovering his fingers over the jagged wound on Stiles’ shoulder. “I want to stay with you."

Stiles sighs and pulls away. “Look, kid-"

"Don’t call me that," Derek snaps.

"It’s what you  _are_ ," Stiles says coldly. He sighs, shoulders slumping, and continues in a softer tone. “In a few years you probably won’t even remember my name. You’re a good kid and you’re gonna grow up to be a great guy, and someday you’re going to make someone the happiest person in the world."

"I recognized you. That day in the woods, when me and Laura were looking for Scott’s inhaler."

"…So?"

"So, I recognized you even though I hadn’t seen you since I was  _ten_. Do you really think I’d forget about you again?"

Stiles’ mouth works, like he wants to say many things but can’t decide what should come out first. “Hope springs eternal, I guess," he sighs eventually.

"I’d wait for you," Derek says. He lifts a tentative, trembling hand and cups Stiles’ cheek. His skin is feverishly hot, his body fighting off whatever it is that’s keeping him from healing. “I’ll wait as long as you need me to."

Stiles chuckles weakly, but leans into Derek’s hand. “That’s the exact opposite of the problem I’m having. You really have no idea, do you, how much I want you."

Derek gasps, an involuntary little wisp of a breath. On some impulse, some thrumming need vibrating under his sternum, he leans into Stiles’ space, closer and closer until he can feel Stiles’ breath fanning across his lips. He’s shaking, terrified and exhilarated and hoping so hard. Stiles leans in those last few millimeters and closes the gap between their mouths.

Derek’s never kissed anyone before and it’s obvious, but Stiles guides him, teaches him how to press and pull and sink into someone else’s mouth. Stiles tastes of blood and curly fries.

"Holy god, you smell so good," Stiles moans. He noses down the column of Derek’s throat, dropping kisses on his pulse point, his adam’s apple, the notch at the top of his chest. A long-fingered hand slides up under Derek’s shirt to splay against his back. “I shouldn’t do this. This is such a bad idea."

"What are you talking about," Derek breathes, pressing Stiles back down onto the floor. He may want to make out with the guy of his dreams, but he doesn’t want the guy popping his stitches in the process. “This is a great idea."

"The worst idea. Your parents are gonna castrate me, and then your uncle the deputy sheriff is gonna shoot me, and after all that I’ll be sent to prison for statutory rape. Maybe I should’ve spent less time worrying about your virtue and more time worrying about  _mine_."

"Um," Derek says sheepishly. He crawls over to his backpack, which is sitting against the wall, and sticks a hand in one of the pockets, coming up with a fistful of condoms and lube packets.

"No," Stiles says. “We’re not jumping into this, especially not  _here_. Your first time deserves to be somewhere better than on a dusty floor in an abandoned house."

"But I want it to be here! I mean, I didn’t think it’d be on the floor of the living room, but-"

"Wait," Stiles interrupts. “You’ve been  _thinking_ about this? Like, actual fantasies? I’ve gotta hear this."

"Wha-" Derek splutters. He pounces on Stiles, clapping his hands over that smug grin. “Shut up!"

Stiles wrestles Derek’s hands away. “Was I romantic? Was there a candlelit dinner? Soft jazz playing in the background? Did I carry you up to our bed? Were there  _rose petals?_ ”

"You’re such an asshole," Derek accuses. “Why do I even like you?"

Stiles sighs and lets Derek go, his arms flopping limply to the floor. “Hell if I know. But I hope you’re not expecting much. Wounded guy, here."

Derek snorts. “You drove around town in your jeep for hours while dying from a wolfsbane bullet. You can get it up long enough to make a teenager come."

Stiles gasps theatrically and raises his hand to his chest. “No compassion for the wounded! I knew it, you just want me for my body."

"I’d never seen your body before tonight," Derek says, abruptly somber. “You’re always wearing a billion layers." He gingerly touches Stiles’ abdomen, just above the mess of stitches.

Stiles watches him, keen predator’s eyes cataloging Derek’s expressions and emotions.

"You really want this." 

"Yeah."

Stiles catches his hand and grips it just shy of too tight. “Derek, are you  _sure?_ ”

Derek locks eyes with him and says, “Yes. I’m sure."

"Still don’t get why you’re so insistent on doing this here," Stiles says. He draws Derek down to lay next to him on the floor. “It’d make me feel better if you’d wait."

"I don’t get you. You keep saying you don’t want this, then you say you do, and I can’t tell if you really want this or not. If you don’t, just say so. I’m not going to rape you."

Stiles snorts. “Lemme be clear then. I want you every way you’ll let me have you. But I still think it’s too soon."

Derek curls into Stiles’ side and places his hand on Stiles’ heart. “Then why are you letting me do this?"

"I guess I’m just tired," Stiles says. He tips his head to face Derek and the shadows hide his expression. “Kate, Gerard, the kanima, the alphas. I’m just. So, so tired of hurting all the time. I want to feel good for a while, even though it means taking advantage of you. Vicious cycles."

_Vicious cycles?_  Derek thinks. 

"Don’t think of it that way," he pushes up onto one elbow to curl protectively, or maybe possessively, over Stiles’ body. “I want this. If anything, I’m the one taking advantage of  _you_."

"Second verse, same as the first," Stiles murmurs darkly, but he lifts his head up to bring their mouths together. 

Derek kisses him gently, trying to remember what he’d learned as he slides a leg over Stiles, straddling his hips. He slides his hands down Stiles’ arms, the lean muscle firm under his palms, and tangles their fingers together, drawing Stiles’ hands to his body.

"You should probably let me turn over," Stiles says into Derek’s mouth.

Derek grunts, annoyed. “Please. I started fingering myself when I was thirteen. I can handle it, I promise. Besides, it’s not like you have a knot or anything."

Stiles’ hands go conspicuously still on Derek’s hips. “Uh, hey, about that."

Derek sits back and glares down at Stiles. “Laura was joking when she said that. You don’t have a knot."

Stiles jazz-hands. “Surprise?"

Derek huffs and rolls his eyes. His freaking  _life_. Of course Stiles has a knot, because that’s par for the course in the weirdness that Derek has fallen into.

"You sure you don’t wanna wait? At least until we can get somewhere with a bed?"

Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but Stiles’ wounds look less awful than they did. Derek smooths a hand down the center of his chest and feels the rise and fall of his breathing.

"I want it," he says, deciding to lay all his cards on the table. “I want you. Here. In the house that you rebuilt from your mom's drawings. It’s just symbolic, okay?"

Stiles stares up at Derek, half his expression lost to shadow. The other half is serene and unbearably fond.

"She would’ve loved you. Kicked my sorry butt for not waiting and doing things right, but she’d have loved you."

Derek feels his ears go hot and tries to school his giddy expression into blankness.

"I’m tired, Derek," Stiles says. “I’ve been an alpha since I was sixteen and blaming myself for falling into Kate’s trap. My pack was just me and my dad for six years, and now that I’ve got something like a proper pack, it’s under siege from all comers. But nobody wants to work together, everyone wants their own way, and it’s pulling me apart.

"I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Keep trying to be strong, keep trying to herd cats. I don’t even know if I’ve got it in me to live out the rest of the week. I don’t know what to do, what decisions to make, or even if I’ve got the strength left in me to follow through on them. I’m just really tired."

Derek swallows hard. He doesn’t know what to say or what to do. All he knows is that he has an overwhelming urge to comfort Stiles and support him with all the strength in his weak human limbs.

"All I know," Stiles adds, “Is that being with you makes me feel like I don’t have to hurt anymore."

Derek’s eyes water at the confession and he scrubs his hands over them, pinching away the tears. 

"Crap, I’m being such a downer." Stiles pulls Derek down and kisses the smooth corner of his jaw. “Sorry."

Derek turns his face into it, chasing Stiles’ mouth with his own. He can feel his face burning. Cool air brushes the small of his back as Stiles slides his hands under Derek’s shirt.

"Let me comfort you?" Derek asks, then immediately feels like a trite moron.

But Stiles says, “You always are," and splays his hands over the wings of Derek’s shoulder blades. His long fingers dip into the space between, rubbing the skin like Derek is the one with the tattoo. They ease Derek’s jacket and shirt off together and at the press of Stiles’ warm (no longer feverish) skin against his own, Derek shivers.

Getting the rest of their clothes off is a little more awkward. Derek unties his shoes and strips his socks off before shoving his jeans and boxers off, then helps Stiles with his, peeling away his clothes with much more care and curiosity.

Stiles is white and speckled all over, and Derek traces lines between the moles on his thigh even as his eyes fix onto Stiles’ cock. It’s hard, dark under the unflattering street lights, and there’s a slight bulge around the base. Stiles guides his hand to it and he squeezes it gently. It feels oddly spongy and the pressure makes Stiles grunt and rock up into his fist. Stiles flinches a moment later and his fingers flutter over the wound in his side.

This time, Derek definitely sees a difference. Most of the wound is still an ugly gash, but it’s no longer oozing and a few of the stitches at the very edge anchor into smooth, even skin.

"You’re healing," Derek says, quietly relieved.

"Yep. That’s a thing I do. Also, coming in your hand is a thing I might do."

Derek drops Stiles’ cock like a hot potato. It makes Stiles laugh and Derek’s face burns with embarrassment.

"So what do you think?" Stiles asks, gesturing at his dick and the soft bulge of tissue at its base.

"I think my life has become a story arc on Supernatural," Derek snarks dryly. “Werewolves and murder lizards and knotted dicks, oh my. But I still want it, weirdly enough."

"Yeah? Why? Why risk your friends and family on all this?" Stiles says, gesturing broadly.

Why indeed. Derek picks opens a packet of lube and squeezes it onto his fingers. He’ll have to be slick and loose as hell if he’s going to take that knot in him without tearing something.

"Being a werewolf has made Laura a better person. She’s still a bully, but she’s not as…bad, I guess? Me and Scott have actual friends now, and Scott’s found Allison, who he’s over the moon in love with. Uncle Peter is finally interested in his job instead of just going through the motions. Jackson’s not a raging asshole anymore and he and Lydia are actually really happy together."

Stiles has slicked up his own fingers and follows Derek’s hand around behind him, the combined touch of their fingertips against his opening making Derek shiver and slump down onto Stiles’ chest.

"And what about you?" Stiles asks. He trails kisses down from Derek’s hairline to the corner of his mouth.

"I get to be with you," Derek says distractedly. Stiles’ finger is working in alongside his. The stretch and faint burn is familiar, something Derek has done to himself more times than he can count, but the unfamiliar fingers make it so much better, letting him focus on the sensation instead of the action.

"Seems like a raw deal," Stiles says flippantly. “You getting stuck with a damaged asshole with more baggage than LAX."

Derek pins Stiles’ face between his hands and kisses him hard, more a painful mashing of lips than anything else. “I want  _all_  of you," he says vehemently.

Stiles’ eyes widen and Derek can practically see his brain churning, adding a new layer to everything they've said. Stiles drags him down and kisses him back, just as fiercely, and Derek can almost hear what he’s thinking, not quite an  _I love you too_ , but something close, almost there,  _I care about you so much that I want to be near you as much as I can._

When their lips drift apart, Stiles says “You got lube in my hair," and pumps three long, knobby fingers in and out of Derek’s welcoming hole.

"Deal with it," Derek deadpans, and sits back, grinding down onto Stiles’ fingers. A fourth works its way in and Derek breathes through it, bearing down and relaxing with the ease of long practice.

"Oh my god, you really weren’t kidding about fingering yourself, were you?" Stiles stares down at where his fingers are sinking into Derek’s body.

Derek breathes slowly through his nose. “There may have, umm! May have been a toy?"

Stiles pushes himself up on his free hand and nips his way up Derek’s chest to his throat. “Tell me about the toy," he says darkly, possessively, before putting his mouth on Derek’s throat and initiating what will undoubtedly be a mean hickey.

"Uncle Pe-ah! Peter got it for me," Derek gasps.

Stiles’ eyes flare red. “What."

"It was a joke." Derek clumsily pets Stiles’ face and shoulders, like he can wipe away the sudden tension. “He accidentally walked in on me fing-fingering myself."

Stiles’ eyes dim and he hums thoughtfully as he twists his fingers in Derek’s ass, dragging his fingertips over Derek’s prostate. Derek jerks and his eyes loose focus at the sharp burn of pleasure. “Somehow I’m not surprised. Your uncle the deputy sheriff is creepily inappropriate, for all that he’s a sassy bastard. Pass me a condom."

Derek forces his face to go blank so he doesn’t scowl at the condom he hands over. Call him hasty or foolish or whatever, but he’d been hoping to feel Stiles in him without a condom.

"Are you seriously pouting?" Stiles asks incredulously. “Look, you’ll thank me when you can walk around without having to worry about jizz leaking out of your ass."

"I could always just shower right after," Derek sulks, but he rolls the condom onto Stiles’ dick anyway.

Stiles blinks. “Wait, the water works?"

"Uh, yeah. Gas and electricity too. I even lit the pilot light under the water heater so I could wash your side with hot water."

"Wait, so why are we in the dark?"

Derek rolls his eyes expansively. “No lightbulbs. Can we stop talking about utilities and have sex now?"

Stiles stares up at Derek. Then he pulls off the condom and empties a full packet of lube onto his bare cock. Derek’s breath catches. He lifts up and shuffles forward, taking Stiles’ heavy cock in hand to line it up-

"Wait," Stiles says, reaching for their clothes. He starts folding them sloppily.

"What  _now_ ," Derek bitches.

"Wow, Primadonna Girl, slow your roll. Just thought you might want to spare your knees the abuse." Stiles drops two messy piles of folded clothes next to Derek’s knees.

Derek feels himself blushing again but shuffles onto the piles. His knees instantly feel better than when they’d been supporting his weight on the wood floor. “Sorry," he mutters. “Thanks."

"Giddyup," Stiles says, smirking. He reaches down to slap Derek’s ass with one big hand and Derek jumps, more at the sound than the brief sting. Derek rolls his eyes but sinks down onto Stiles’ cock, both of them groaning at the sensation.

"Oh my god," Derek moans, working his way down into Stiles’ lap with little hitching rolls of his hips.

"No fucking kidding," Stiles agrees. He wraps his arms around Derek and clings to him. “Fuck, you’re so tight. I’m not gonna last, sorry, it’s just been too long." _  
_

"Oh my  _god_ ," Derek repeats. “Just. Touch me. Touch my cock."

Stiles works his hand between them and starts jerking Derek’s cock, the feel of a foreign hand making his eyes roll back in his head. Derek shifts his knees and drops that last inch onto Stiles’ hips; he can feel the spongy tissue of Stiles’ knot already starting to expand against the inside of his rim.

"Holy god,  _really_  not gonna last," Stiles pants. The arm wrapped around Derek squeezes tighter. “Why do you smell so  _good?_ "

"Old Spice," Derek says as he lifts up. The noise Stiles makes falls somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze as Derek’s rim squeezes the steadily swelling knot. Derek rolls his hips experimentally, only fucking the length of Stiles’ knot, and Stiles just starts babbling nonsensically, Derek’s name interspersed with ‘oh my god’s and ‘fuck’s and ‘holyshitholyshit’s. So yeah, Stiles is a talker, no surprise there.

He also whines and whimpers, especially when Derek squeezes the base of his knot, clenching his inner muscles tight around the thickening bulge until it gets too big for Derek to get his sphincter over. He settles into Stiles’ lap and just rocks, savoring the pressure of the knot against his prostate.

Stiles’ hand stutters unevenly over Derek’s cock as he gets close to coming. He’ll give it a few pulls, get distracted by the pressure and heat of Derek’s ass around his cock and knot, then seem to remember it again. Derek doesn’t mind much, more smug at how he’s made Stiles fall apart.

"I’m close," Stiles whines. “Let me-let me-"

"Anything," Derek says, petting Stiles’ hair.

Stiles tips backward until he’s laying flat, sets his feet, and  _thrusts_. The force of it lifts Derek bodily into the air, riding Stiles’ hips like a bucking bronco. Pleasure explodes in his groin and he shouts, then shouts again as Stiles drops down only to shove upward again, slamming his cock into Derek as deep as it can go.

Stiles thrusts up a third time and a brutal snarl rips out of him as he comes, his body a straight line from his shoulders up to his knees as his cock spurts come into Derek’s body. Derek sobs as the knot pulses against his prostate and hastily jerks his cock. A few pulls is all it takes for Derek to follow, come streaking out over Stiles’ heaving chest. The clenching of his ass wrings an animalistic groan from deep in Stiles’ body, the rumble of sound raising a sympathetic shiver that traces down Derek’s spine.

Stiles lowers them to the floor, Derek’s knees landing on the piles of folded clothes as he comes down from his orgasm. It’s a slow process, since Stiles’ knot is still pulsing against his prostate and his hips still twitch spasmodically, jostling his cock and pulling at Derek’s rim. Derek touches him, running his hands over Stiles’ arms and hair and face and chest. The wounds on his shoulder have healed by now, and the jagged slash on his abdomen isn’t far behind, closing up even as Derek watches. He’d get scissors to cut the stitches, but he’s, well, stuck.

Stiles stares up at him from under hooded eyes, his hands warm on Derek’s thighs though he’s starting to get chilly everywhere else. Stiles’ brown leather jacket is still lying on the floor where Derek left it and he snags it by the hem, dragging it over and shrugging it on. The collar smells like Stiles’ aftershave. Stiles zips it up for him and smooths the sleeves down his arms, pressing their palms together and folding his fingers over. Derek grips him back and leans down for a slow, languid kiss, careful not to pull against Stiles’ knot.

Stiles hmms into Derek’s mouth. “Was it what you wanted?" he asks quietly. The sound of his voice seems inordinately intimate after the sharp sounds of their lovemaking.

"More. Better," Derek says. He feels his eyes drooping. It’s been a long day and night and he feels safe and comfortable here with Stiles. “You?"

"I feel good. Well, the stitches are pulling a little, since I don’t need them anymore to hold me together while I heal." 

Derek tries not to read into it, tries not to find symbolism where it wasn’t intended, but as he and Stiles work together to pull out the stitches, Stiles cutting and Derek pulling, he can’t help but feel a rush of pride that  _he_  was the one to heal Stiles. That  _he_  was the one that Stiles let close enough to help him heal.

He traces the fading pucker of the wound and thinks about new growth.


	19. Reckless endangerment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [1lostone](http://1lostone.tumblr.com/) demanded: VERY VERY VERY TOPPING-FROM-THE-BOTTOM Derek. Public sex encouraged. Can be fuck or die, or just bored on a Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: questionable consent, but it is consensual

The Stilinski house has a fairly open floor plan, the first floor rooms opening into each other in a way that reminds Derek vaguely of his family’s house before it burned. You can’t see into the kitchen from the living room though, which is what Derek’s counting on as he grinds back against Stiles, fucking himself on Stiles’ cock as Stiles clings to the counter behind him, pinned upright by Derek’s body.

Of course, the second anyone steps out of the living room, they’ll be able to see Derek, jeans around his thighs, rubbing himself through boxer briefs pulled down in the back just far enough to accommodate Stiles’ cock in his ass. And then they’ll see Stiles behind him, red-faced and gasping around the hand he’s shoved into his mouth, the edge of the counter grinding into the small of his back as Derek grinds back on his cock.

The pack is entertaining (read: distracting) the Sheriff in the living room, begging for stories of Stiles’ childhood from a man who really just wants to go into the kitchen to get a beer. They, of course, can hear what Derek is doing to Stiles in the kitchen, probably overheard the hissed argument when Derek first pinned Stiles against the counter, got down on his knees and blew him aggressively until he got hard, then impaled his pre-lubed ass on Stiles’ cock.

Stiles is close, unbearably turned on by the risk of discovery, and Derek slides his hand into his briefs, jerking his cock roughly as he fucks himself carefully on Stiles’ cock. Too fast and they’ll rattle the cabinets. Too slow and someone will walk in.

The Sheriff gets up and takes a step toward the kitchen. Derek growls, lower than human ears can detect, and Isaac jumps to his feet, dragging the Sheriff over to look at the pictures of Scott and Stiles as kids sitting on a side table. Behind Derek, Stiles squeaks and reeks of arousal so strong it makes Derek’s head spin. A long-fingered hand slides into Derek’s briefs alongside his own and starts jerking Derek’s cock.

Fuck, but it’s good. Good enough that Derek’s eyes go a little unfocused, his hearing a little dull. Scott mutters something dark to himself that Derek can’t make out. Stiles’ hand does something obscene to the head of Derek’s cock and he comes with a strained grunt, pumping hot come into Stiles’ hand and his own briefs. Stiles isn’t far behind, grinding his cock into the spasming clutch of Derek’s ass. He comes with a sharp, breathy exhale.

The rest of the pack, trapped in the living room, gives a collective sigh of relief. 

"Oh, are they done?" the Sheriff asks. Still pinned to the counter by Derek’s weight, Stiles whines and covers his beet-red face with the hand not dripping with Derek’s come. The Sheriff’s footsteps are purposely heavy as he walks across the living room toward the kitchen, and Derek and Stiles scramble to put themselves together, fumbling with their respective belts just as the Sheriff rounds the corner.

"About time," the Sheriff says. “Stiles, you know where the bleach is. Scrub  _everything_."

Stiles obediently retreats to the sink, turning on the tap to wash his hands and splash water on his flushed face.

Meanwhile, Derek is trying to stare down the Sheriff, but even alphas aren’t immune to the Parental Glare of Severe Displeasure.

Derek slumps. The Sheriff smirks.

"Hale, why don’t you go clean out the gutters. And then you can wash my cruiser. In fact, why don’t you vacuum the inside while you’re at it."

Derek glances out the window, where it’s barely noon and already over a hundred degrees out. Then he looks at the Sheriff. 

Better outside than inside, he decides. At least if he’s outside he’ll be able to get a head start when the Sheriff decides to come murder him.


	20. This is why we eat our fruits and vegetables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [dokuhan](http://dokuhan.tumblr.com/) prompted: Derek finally gets to poop.
> 
> (Based on the idea that Derek is always so miserable-looking because he’s always too busy trying to save everyone’s asses (read: getting his ass kicked) to have time for a healthy movement.)

Stiles sighs into Derek’s kiss, pulling Derek down to lay between his spread thighs. He smooths his hands over the broad planes of Derek’s back and feels nothing but tension. He pulls back.

Derek looks, well, like he always looks. Unhappy and tense with a touch of tragic misery and not at all like he’s having fun kissing his no-longer-jailbait boyfriend.

"Dude, do you ever relax?" he asks, digging his fingers into the knotted muscles at the small of Derek’s back. He can’t get much leverage, and Derek undoes what little good Stiles can do anyway when his shoulders bunch up defensively.  _Shit._

He clears his throat and tries for a sultry tone. “Or maybe I should fuck all that tension out of you," he suggests, sliding his hands downward to squeeze Derek’s gorgeous ass. The tense misery on Derek’s face slips toward something softer, then Derek flinches away, pushing up off of Stiles’ body.

"I can’t," he says, but before Stiles can even open his mouth to suggest the other way around, Derek glances pointedly in the direction of the bathroom.  _Ohh_. Well, there are ways to work with that, too.

"You wanna use the toilet and then maybe we can take a shower together? Get you all clean for me?"

Derek’s eyes widen a little and his ears go pink. “Yeah, I’d-" he stutters. “Yea-"

Derek and Stiles’ cells go off simultaneously. There’s a brief traffic jam of flailing limbs as they both lunge for their respective phones.

"Scott," Stiles reads.

"Isaac," Derek confirms.

_Well_ , Stiles thinks.  _Maybe next time._

&&&

Fucking hunters. Derek and Stiles manage to get Scott, Isaac, and Cora out of harm’s way, but unlike werewolf eyes, human eyes can’t see tripwires. Stiles gets caught and spends two days in the company of a bunch of surprisingly hospitable redneck hunter wannabes before the rest of the pack manages to spring him free.

"What took you so long?" Stiles hisses.

"Negotiations," Derek spits, like the word itself tastes like ass. Stiles rolls his eyes, then does a double take.

"You okay, man?" he asks.

Derek is shifting from foot to foot, shoulders tight and face a stony mask. “I’m fine," he says shortly.

_Yeah,_  Stiles thinks,  _bullshit_.

But then Allison is waving Stiles over to where the rednecks are looking contrite as Lydia scolds them in her usual singular manner.

&&&

Stiles wakes up in his own bed the next morning with Derek clinging to him like an octopus with severe separation anxiety. The guy’s even still wearing his jacket, for god’s sake. 

There’s tension around his eyes and mouth, which strikes Stiles as unusual—aren’t sleeping people supposed to look relaxed? But then again, Stiles did get caught by hunters, even if they were unusually nice ones who got Stiles a side of curly fries with his burgers, so Stiles writes if off as stress.

At about noon, Stiles changes his mind. Derek isn’t clinging to him anymore, but he holds himself with rigid control. Each movement is mechanically deliberate, carried out with an austere economy of motion that looks downright eerie. Stiles and the Sheriff have a few intense (and intensely creeped out) silent arguments behind Derek’s back, trading head jerks and wide-eyed looks until the Sheriff makes a tactical retreat into his bedroom, leaving Stiles and Derek alone.

"Hey," Stiles says. “Are you okay? You look kind of…"

Stiles mentally gropes for a word. Tense? Robotic? Pod person-y?

"I’m fine," Derek bites out.

He leaves exactly thirty minutes later though, just gets up and walks out with a distracted, perfunctory goodbye.

That hurts, a little bit.

&&&

There’s radio silence for two days, then Cora calls:

"Get over here and deal with him. Now."

Such a charming girl.

The loft is blessedly free of everyone but Derek when Stiles arrives. Derek, who is pacing through the open space like, like… Well, Stiles doesn’t know, but like something that feels the need to do a lot of very intense-looking pacing.

"All right," Stiles says sharply, throwing himself onto the couch. “What the hell is going on with you?"

Derek doesn’t say anything, just keeps pacing around his loft like a goldfish making circles in its bowl. Stiles seethes a little. He may or may not still be pissed off about Derek’s abrupt departure two days before, followed by two days of avoidance.

"Derek!" Stiles snaps. " _Stop._ ”

Derek freezes and turns to look at Stiles. He bares his teeth, but his eyes only flicker a dull, half-assed red, so Stiles stands up and strides over until he’s crowding Derek against a wall, staring him down. Wonder of wonders, Derek submits, sagging against the wall and rolling his head to bare his throat.

Jesus fucking-

"What the hell, Derek," Stiles whines, not a little freaked out. “Are you- are you  _dying_?"

Derek jumps like he’s been goosed. “What! No! I’m just-" He bites off the rest of the sentence and looks down, hiding his expression.

"Just-?" Stiles prompts.

Derek’s head tips in the direction of the bathroom. Stiles sighs and steps back, gesturing for Derek to get on with it.

"Right, bathroom, whatever, just go. And make it quick."

Derek doesn’t move, though. “I can’t," he says.

Stiles gestures impatiently with his hands:  _Can’t what_ _?_

Derek looks up and locks eyes with Stiles. His face is  _red_. “I. Can’t."

The circuits in Stiles brain hum with activity, churning through all the subtle clues Derek's been handing out. His mouth slowly falls open.

"You," he parrots slowly, “Can’t."

Derek nods slowly. Stiles nods slowly back.

_Ooooookay._

And then, research. Or well, a quick glance at Wikipedia followed by a trip to CVS, bankrolled by Derek’s debit card, which of  _course_  Stiles knows the pin, don’t be stupid. Janice at the register give Stiles some useful advice, since her daughter had a pretty bad bout of  _oh god Stiles just can’t think it_  when she was in college and away from home cooked meals and decently balanced nutrition.

The next few hours are among the most awful hours of Stiles’ life.

But somewhere along the way, between trying and failing to calm Derek down and prying open the windows with one hand while holding his shirt over his face with the other, he manages to extract from Derek a promise of infinite favors, so there’s that.

And then afterward, Derek is so relaxed, so relieved, that he just flops onto his bed, shower-warm and loose-limbed, and smiles up at Stiles with this disgustingly beatific smile until Stiles had no choice but to cuddle the fuck out of his big, warm, floppy body.

(And  _fuck no_ , they don’t have sex. Because no. Just no. Stiles has had enough of butts and butt-related stuff for the next few months, thanks so much Derek for murdering Stiles’ libido, all the chaste kissing and yeah, just  _no_.)


	21. Too much of a good thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [annabethlemorte](http://annabethlemorte.tumblr.com/) requested: Stiles overprepares for his first time taking it up the butt
> 
> Modified with anna’s knowledge to bottom!Derek ‘cause that shit is bee ay en ay en ay ess.

Stiles moans into Derek’s long, sucking kiss. Derek’s stupid henley is fighting him, bunching up around Derek’s ribs and keeping Stiles from getting his hands all over the tattoo he’s been wanting to molest for fucking  _ages_. Derek laughs against Stiles’ mouth and pushes himself up, kneeling between Stiles’ splayed thighs to pull the damn shirt up and off. There’s a hickey blooming on the side of his throat under the dark stubble.

Derek drops back down to his forearms and Stiles finally gets his hands on Derek’s ink. Or where he knows Derek’s ink is, since there’s no perceptible difference that his hands can feel. Derek shivers anyway and Stiles ducks his head down to suck a hickey onto the other side of Derek’s throat.

"Having fun?" Derek asks. His voice is rough, throaty with arousal, and tickles Stiles’ kiss-bruised lips.

"Om nom," he mumbles. “‘m a vampire, gonna suck your blooood."

"As long as you don’t fucking sparkle," Derek grumbles. Stiles pets his tattoo. Mrs. Hale still hasn’t quite recovered from her Twilight phase.

He rolls them over, Derek sprawling out beneath him. Stiles sits up and strips off his own shirt, then hovers over Derek, dropping teasing kisses on his face.

"What am I talking about, you were totally Team Jacob. Maybe I should be a werewolf instead?" He howls,  _aroooooo_. “I’d turn into a giant dog and you could ride on my back."

"Wolf, dumbass, you’d turn into a wolf." He raises his hips obediently for Stiles to strip off his ridiculously tight jeans and plain boxer-briefs. “That’d be cool though, riding you around. Might train you to a saddle and bit."

Stiles snorts. “The only bit I want in my mouth is this one," he says, and waggles Derek’s cock. “And besides, we both know you like it better when I’ve got the reins."

Derek snorts and rolls his eyes. “Pants off, Lone Ranger."

Stiles mentally strangles his insecurities and shoves them in a box to smash with a hammer later. Derek wants him, has explicitly stated that he thinks Stiles is hot, and actually  _douched_  for him. He probably won’t disappoint Derek. Hopefully. He eels out of his jeans and feels his self-confidence inflate a little when Derek eyes his cock and licks his slack lips. Derek’s stare meanders up Stiles’ chest, darting from mole to mole, then gets stuck on Stiles’ mouth, so Stiles leans down and kisses him.

This time, it’s Derek who moans into the kiss. His legs come up, curling over Stiles’ hips and lifting his hips to grind against Stiles’ belly. Stiles props himself up on one elbow to reach around and down, teasing the top of Derek’s crack with his fingers before dipping in. The crinkled hairs are already damp with sweat, and tucked between two glorious asscheeks is Derek’s hole, warm and soft to the touch. Stiles presses a finger in and Derek hisses. Stiles freezes.

That was not a sexy hiss. That was a the-dog-got-too-excited-and-drew-blood hiss. That was an  _ouch_  hiss.

Stiles pulls back. “Derek?"

"Sorry, keep going," Derek says. “I’m fine."

Stiles keeps his eyes on Derek’s face this time, gently rubbing the pad of his finger over the sensitive furl. Sure enough, the skin around Derek’s eyes and mouth goes tense.

"Wow Pinnochio, don’t stab me in the eye with that nose of yours," Stiles snaps, sitting up.

Derek sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. “For fuck’s sake, Stiles. It just stings a little."

“‘Stings a little’?" Stiles parrots incredulously. “If it just stings a little now, how much do you think it’s going to sting when I’ve got my dick in there?"

Derek doesn’t say anything, but his face goes conspicuously blank.

Stiles clenches his fist and grinds his teeth in frustration. “If you don’t want to catch, you should just have fucking  _said so_."

That gets a reaction; Derek curls up off the bed in an effortless display of abs and catches Stiles’ face between his hands.

"I do," he says intently. " _I do_. I just-"

Stiles’ eyebrow climbs. “Just…?" he prompts.

"I may have, um. Gone. Overboard? A little."

"Gone. Overboard." Stiles repeats dumbly. “With?"

Derek’s hands slip to Stiles’ shoulders and he ducks his head, the crown butting against Stiles’ sternum. His ears and nape turn tomato red as Stiles watches. “With the douche? And the washing? And maybe douching again?"

Stiles feels his eyebrows try to climb up into his hair. “So you’re saying that you washed yourself too thoroughly and it irritated the skin, so now you’re too sensitive down there to do anything?"

Derek hunches in on himself. His whole neck is red. Even his chest, what little of it Stiles can see from this angle, is red. “Yes?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Yes," Derek repeats miserably.

Stiles sighs and says, diplomatically, “Well, it could be worse."

"How the hell could this be worse," Derek grouses to Stiles’ chest.

Stiles reaches between them and takes Derek’s cock in his hands. It’s gone soft, but chubs up immediately between his palms. Derek’s obsession with Stiles’ hands is legendary among their friends.

"You could have friction burns on your dick," Stiles suggests. He fans his fingers over the head of Derek’s cock and follows it with a firm pass of his thumb over Derek’s frenulum. Blunt nails dig into the meat of Stiles’ shoulders.

"Who-who the hell even does that?" Derek asks, incredulous.

This time, Stiles is the one to turn red.


	22. Cinderella took off her slippers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous wanted: Crossdressing Derek fic, because everyone always does crossdressing Stiles but not Derek.

"Cora!" Derek wheezes, slowing from a jog to a stop as his barefoot, barely dressed sister disappears around a corner. He puts his hand out, bracing himself against a wall as he catches his breath. Or tries to, anyway. His other hand goes to his waist, which is pinched tight by the brand new corset and formal gown that his mother and older sister bullied him into. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t be so bad—Derek likes dressing up just as much as Cora hates it—but they’d insisted on lacing him more tightly than usual, complaining that if he was going to keep bulking up in the chest and shoulders, he’d have to balance it out by lacing tighter to make his hips look fuller. Derek had gone along with it, wanting to make a good impression at Crown Prince Stiles’ ball, but now he’s regretting it.

He toes out of his heeled shoes and flexes his feet on the cool floor as he tries to slow his breathing. Laura insisted on them too; apparently high heels on shoes all the rage in the capitol. Give him his soft slippers any day.

He can’t seem to catch his breath. Derek gasps and leans heavily against the wall, his head spinning from the lack of air making its way into his lungs. He scratches at the gown’s laces, but his satin-gloved fingers slip clumsily over where the knot is tucked away, and he slumps down to his knees, his layered skirts puffing up around him.

 _I’m going to die_ , Derek thinks hysterically, digging for the knot with both hands,  _I’m going to die before I ever got a chance to dance with the Prince and it’s all Laura and Mother’s fault._

Derek’s breathing gets shorter as he begins to panic.

 _Oh my god, I’m going to_ die _!_

Derek hears shouting, feels strong hands on his arms and face and a voice speaking to him, but his vision is already tunneling to black, closing to a pinprick of light even as he hears a blade sawing at his laces.

&&&

Derek wakes in bed with a pounding headache, groans, and rolls over, only to get tangled in a man’s embroidered jacket. Laura and Cora tumble in, Mother hot on their heels.

"Oh my god, Derek, are you okay?" Laura all but screams into his face. He flinches at the volume and pushes himself up to lean against his pillows.

"What happened?" he asks. He peeks under his sheets to find himself in just his shift and underthings.

His mother and sisters share guilty looks.

"Well, dear," his mother says, “We laced you up a little too tightly, and then Cora made you chase her around, and then, well…"

"You missed the whole ball," Cora says abruptly. Laura hisses and smacks her on the arm. Mother brusquely shoos them out of the room.

Derek sags against his pillows, disappointed. He’d wanted so badly to see the Prince. He picks disconsolately at the embroidery on the tailed jacket, which had apparently been draped over him while he slept. He wonders who it belongs to.

Mother sighs and climbs up onto the bed, wrinkled gown be damned, and leans against the headboard next to Derek, who leans into her embrace. She pets his hair, which is still stiff with product.

"I’m sorry, dear. I know how much you were looking forward to it. The King and Prince are both very fond of Beacon Hills, you know, and I'm sure they'll stop here during next year's tour and request a ball like they always do."

Derek nods and sighs, returning his mother’s hug.

"You have a guest, by the way," Mother adds. “The man who found you and cut you out of your corset. He’s been hovering around us all evening, asking after your health, and refuses to leave until he’s sure that you’re well. He even offered to write a letter to Countess Ennis’ corset maker, who specializes in ladies with a larger build."

Derek groans and flops back onto his pillows. “Mother, I don’t want another suitor," he whines. “They’re all so  _annoying_."

Usually, Mother scolds him for so casually spurning suitors, but this time Mother’s eyes twinkle mischievously and she pats him on the hand. “Give this one a chance, dear. You may find yourself surprised. I’ll send him in."

Derek groans again, louder and angstfully, but he obediently props himself up against his headboard, drawing his covers and the jacket up to his chest. It smells surprisingly good, even at the nape of the collar where the fabric has been stained a little darker from old sweat.

The door has barely shut behind Mother before there’s a soft tap-tap against the wood. He calls for his guest to come in, prepared to hate him on sight only to freeze when the head that pokes in reveals itself to be very familiar.

"Hi," Prince Stiles says, sliding in. He’s underdressed, in just a silk shirt and embroidered vest. An embroidered vest that matches the jacket Derek is suddenly clutching to his chest.

"Your Highness!" Derek yelps. He scrambles to pull the sheets up higher, feeling naked in just his shift.

The Prince’s hands dart up to pat the air, alarmed. “Sorry! Duke Talia said you were well enough to see visitors, but I’ll be out of your hair soon. I just had to—" 

He seems to lose his train of thought, eyes fixed on Derek’s face, which Derek can feel getting steadily hotter. He licks his lips and Derek’s eyes can’t help but follow the quick swipe of pink tongue.

"I’m, uh," Prince Stiles says, “staying in town. For, to, um, a few days! To do a, uh, thing." He licks his lips again and Derek watches again. “I hope you’re feeling better? Bye."

Prince Stiles, cheeks pink, all but lunges for the door.

"Wait!" Derek shouts. The Prince freezes and turns slowly to face Derek; his cheeks are as flushed as Derek suspects his own face is. “Thank you. For saving my life."

The Prince bows low with a showy flourish. “It was my honor, m’lady."

Derek pulls the covers and jacket up over his mouth to hide his giddy smile. There’s a tempest of butterflies in his belly and his breath feels short in all the best ways. The scent that wafts up off the embroidered jacket gives him the strength to ask, “Can I see you again?"

Prince Stiles smiles, open and wide, and blurts, “Of course! Always. Whenever you like." And Derek lowers the jacket to smile shyly back.


	23. Domestic bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked for: Derek mpreg with a side of adorableness.
> 
> Mpreg isn't my thing, so you get always-a-girl!Derek, aka Dana.

Scott and Allison watch, stupefied, as Stiles happily lets himself be bossed around by a very pregnant Dana. It’s such a weirdly normal dynamic; Scott and Allison are so used to the bickering and occasionally violent banter and Stiles browbeating Dana into going along with his plans that seeing Dana order him hither and yon is just  _weird_.

"This is so  _weird_ ," Scott whispers to Allison. 

"I know, right?" Allison whispers back. “It’s like something from the Twilight Zone or something."

"Pod people," Scott says, nodding. 

Dana, laid out on the couch with her feet on Stiles’ lap, demands another cushion under them. Stiles tugs out a couch pillow from behind his back and gently lifts her legs to place the pillow underneath, handling her ankles like they’re made of spun glass.

Allison and Scott watch quietly for a few more minutes. It’s bizarrely enthralling, like watching a spider spin a cocoon around its prey or cat gifs on tumblr, and they just can’t look away.

Dana demands the TV remote. Stiles obediently hands it over with a broad smile on his face even though Scott knows, he  _knows_ , that Stiles absolutely hates Dana’s TV watching habits. There’s literally only so much ESPN a man can take before he wants to watch something else.

Sure enough, Dana clicks over to ESPN and Stiles sits there, his hands absently but thoroughly massaging her feet and ankles while his eyes glaze over.

"Do you think she drugged him?" Allison asks out of the side of her mouth. Dana doesn’t seem to hear, focused as she is on her precious ESPN.

"Maybe? This is seriously freaking me out, though."

Dana abruptly demands Cheetos and peanut butter and Stiles smiles and gets up to fetch them, even propping an extra pillow under her feet to keep them at roughly the same height while his thighs are elsewhere. 

Allison and Scott shudder in horror.


	24. That awkward moment when pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompted: Stripper derek and millionaire/business man stiles who is also a few years older and they’re both lonely and maybe feels and sex

Derek should maybe feel guilty about still being a stripper when he’s already got a full time job courtesy of his uncle’s nepotism, but college was  _expensive_ and he’s only got an entry level position anyway, so he doesn’t feel all that bad about it. 

Or at least, he doesn’t until he does a private gig at Laura’s college roomate’s bachelorette party and turns around mid-gyrate to see his  _uncle’s boss_  leaning against a wall and  _watching_.

Yeah, he maybe starts to regret it right about then.

&&&

Heather, Laura’s old roommate and Mr. Stilinski’s  _goddaughter_ , is surprisingly cool about the whole thing, letting him off the hook as all the women coo pityingly at him and hustle him into the bathroom to get re-dressed. He’s still red in the face when he slinks out and almost screams in fright when he rounds a corner and unexpectedly comes face-to-face with Mr. Stilinski.

"S-s-sir!" Derek yelps.

"Hey," Mr. Stilinski says, putting his hands up. He’s smiling gently, like Derek is a baby animal that has done something adorable. “It’s cool. Your secret is safe with me."

Derek’s mouth flaps uselessly and he can feel his face twisting into what is undoubtedly an unflattering expression.

Mr. Stilinski pats the air soothingly. “I’m serious, it’s fine. You’re not going to get fired, and you’re hardly the only employee with a life outside the company."

Derek groans and drops his face into his palms. Mr. Stilinski pats him on the shoulder.

"Let’s get you a drink," he says and leads Derek over to the alcohol.

Sure enough, a few cups of coke-flavored rum later, Derek is feeling much less agonized about his predicament. It helps that Mr. Stilinski is being so nice about the whole thing, engaging him in small talk as the bachelorette party rages on beyond the corner they’ve tucked themselves into. He’s so nice to look at, the thick-framed glasses and artfully messy hair making him look a decade younger than his forty-one years. In fact, if it wasn’t for the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth and the faint speckling of grey in his hair, Derek would never have known that Mr. Stilinski was older than his uncle, who is fanatical about skin care. And  _wow_ , his  _mouth_. Derek sways forward, eyes on the prize.

Mr. Stilinski chuckles warmly and presses him back by the shoulder until he’s leaning against the wall behind him.

"I think it’s time to cut you off," he says, plucking the red cup out of Derek’s limp grasp. And inch of soda-flavored alcohol sloshes in the bottom.

"Noooo," Derek moans piteously, “I wanna kiss you."

Mr. Stilinski blinks. “You do?"

Derek nods fiercely and is abruptly grateful for the wall at his back when the world spins. “Yesss. I really like your mouth. I really like your face. I always want to kiss you. Especially when you wear weird ties. I really like you."

Maybe it’s a trick of the light or maybe Derek is really, really drunk, but he’s pretty sure that when Mr. Stilinski’s eyes dip down, it’s to look at Derek’s mouth. Derek smiles, showing off his pearly whites, and Mr. Stilinski’s pretty, pink mouth sags open a little.

Suddenly, he’s being dragged away, his sister and the birthday girl—“Bachelorette," Laura corrects—pulling him by the elbows into the kitchen where an Amazonian woman with epically blonde hair shoves a water bottle into his hands. Derek paws at the cap for a few seconds until the blonde woman snatches it from him and returns it de-capped.

"Thanks," he mutters, then drinks.

"Oh my god, Laura. Did Uncle Stiles get your stripper brother white-girl wasted?" He hears the birthday girl—“Bachelorette," the blonde Amazon says—ask.

Derek doesn’t see Laura’s expression, tipping his head back to empty the water bottle into his mouth. He tilts ominously on his heels as his body follows the motion, but hands grab him and hold him upright.

"I think so," he hears Laura say darkly. “I’m gonna have Peter slap that asshole with a harassment suit so hard his head pops off."

"Noooo," Derek moans. The empty bottle disappears and a fresh one materializes in its place. “He’s so nice. I like his face so much."

The three women blink at him as he sways on his feet. He paws at the new water bottle and the birthday girl—“Bachelorette," the birthday girl says—helpfully opens it for him.

"I really wanna taste his penis," Derek sighs.

"Is it still harassment if the attraction goes both ways?" the birthday girl—" _Bachelorette,_ " the three women chorus—asks.


	25. The obligatory Hoechlteeth fangasm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is a wererabbit.

The thing about full moons is that they don’t just make wererabbits like Derek extra jumpy, they make him extra  _horny_. In New York, he’d had fuckbuddies that he’d more or less trusted not to slash his throat mid-fuck, but since coming back to Beacon Hills, suitable partners have been hard to come by.  _Had_ been hard to come by.

This  _thing_  with Stiles is new enough, tentative enough that Derek very nearly doesn’t text him. It won’t be the first full moon he’s spent alone. But his dick wins out, as usual, and when Stiles shoulders the loft’s door open, Derek is right there at the door, tossing a spare sock out and slamming the door shut behind Stiles. He grabs the eighteen year-old by the belt buckle and drags him over to the bed.

"Oh my god," Stiles says, slapping at Derek’s grip on the front of his pants. "Let the fuck go! You’re giving me a wedgie."

"Then take your fucking pants off," Derek snarls. His ears itch to unfurl to their proper length and he suspects that his two front teeth are longer than usual.

Stiles’ eyes narrow. “Is this a booty call?”

"Yes," Derek says, and strips off his shirt. He toes off his shoes and socks before going for his belt, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Stiles hesitantly squirming out of his dozen layers. He’s still body shy around Derek—they’ve only fucked twice, the first time being barely a week and a half ago—but his dick is already half-hard when he climbs onto the bed.

Derek watches it sway and his ass clenches instinctively, triggering a shiver like a tectonic event. He must make some noise, because Stiles looks curiously over at him.

"On your back," he says, and gets lube and condoms. Plural. They’re going to need them.

Stiles splays out in the center of the mattress, idly fondling his hardening cock as Derek pulls a condom out of its wrapper. He looks uneasy, for all that his dick is on board, but Derek doesn’t care. He needs Stiles’ cock in him. He just fucking  _needs_   _it_.

As worked up as he already is from the full moon shining in through the wall of windows, he doesn’t need much prep. Lube, two fingers, scissoring, and then Derek is lowering himself onto Stiles’ sheathed and slicked dick, shuffling on his knees until he’s sitting square on Stiles’ pelvis. He rolls his hips and feels his face shift, unbidden, the bridge of his nose thickening, hair sprouting along his jaw, furred ears rising in a smooth stretch, all so sweet and easy like it hasn’t been since he was a child.

He can hear Stiles’ accelerating heartbeat, hear the thrumming rush of blood through his body. The whispered “ _wow”_  fills his ears like Stiles spoke it straight into his brain. Derek rolls his hips again and the slick sound of Stiles’ cock in his ass sparks across his hearing like gunfire.

He dials his hearing back and gets to it, bouncing on Stiles’ cock, lifting himself up and down on tirelessly powerful legs. Long-fingered hands grip his hips, experimenting with the angle, and Derek follows them, canting his hips and hunting for that perfect angle, that angle where the head of Stiles’ cock bumps over that sensitive gland on each thrust.

Their rhythm is rough, choppy with inexperience, but Stiles is a fast learner. He sets his feet onto the mattress and begins meeting Derek’s downward thrusts. Derek leans back, planting his hands behind him, and  _yes_ ,  _there, fuck, right there_. His head tips back and he rides the waves of pleasure as Stiles fucks up into him, hard.

He can hear Stiles muttering to himself over the sound of his own gasping, little  _fuck_ s and  _shit_ s and  _Derek_ s and a dozen other expletives that tip out of his mouth. Derek blinks up at the ceiling and abruptly wonders why he isn’t kissing that mouth. He curls forward, losing that perfect angle, but in exchange he gets Stiles’ mouth, those pink lips and that whip-sharp tongue and Stiles’ long, long fingers tangling in his hair, randomly gripping and tugging. Derek pulls one hand free and guides it to his neglected, leaking cock, and then Stiles grips and tugs him there, too. His fingers are clever on Derek’s cock; Stiles has elevated jerking off to an artform so thoroughly practiced that he doesn’t even need to pay attention to it anymore. Derek fucks himself harshly between Stiles’ cock and Stiles’ hand, buries his face in Stiles’ throat, and comes with a breathless grunt. Stiles works him through it, pumping his cock and fucking up into his spasming ass until the last drop of come oozes out onto Stiles’ belly.

Derek’s ears twitch and swivel and shiver when Stiles’ breath disturbs the fine hairs. He’s still hard in Derek’s ass, his heart still drumming along, and Derek rocks back onto him, enjoying the pleasure of being full now that the urgency of the full moon has passed. He busses a lazy trail up from Stiles’ throat to his jaw to his cheekbone to his soft, wet mouth, lapping up Stiles’ harsh breaths. They taste like toothpaste. Derek wonders, a little guiltily, if he woke Stiles with his text.

Well, no point in crying over spilt milk. He tucks his feet under Stiles’ thighs, wedges his arms under Stiles’ back, and flips them over. Stiles flails momentarily before settling in between Derek’s thighs. He’s a little more comfortable in this position; Derek thinks the extra control afforded by it appeals to his pathological need to be helpful. And sure enough, the first thing Stiles does is slip a pillow beneath Derek’s hips.

Derek pulls Stiles down for a kiss. When he places his hand on Stiles’ chest, still streaked with cooling lines of Derek’s come, he can feel the thrum of his heart. He hitches his legs up around Stiles’ waist and pulls him in.

Stiles begins rocking into him, at first with short rolls of his hips, then longer, harder as his arousal ramps back up again. Derek moves in counterpoint and when he palms his cock, it begins to get hard again.

"Fuck," Stiles hisses when he sees Derek’s cock firming up. His hips slam into Derek’s ass, the sharp smack of skin on skin ringing in the open acoustics of the loft. He gets his arms under Derek’s knees, tilting his ass higher to get at that sweet spot. Derek arches greedily into it, hooking one arm around Stiles’ neck to draw him down and working his cock with the other. He pants and moans into Stiles’ mouth, coaxing slack, distracted lips into hungry kisses and sliding his tongue along Stiles’ teeth, chasing the taste of mint.

Stiles pounds into him, his kisses getting sloppy as he gets close. With a few last forceful lunges, he comes. Derek holds him through it, squeezing around Stiles’ cock as it pulses and swallowing Stiles’ choked cries.

Stiles’ thundering heartbeat slows gradually and he pulls out, hastily tying off the condom and putting his fingers in Derek’s twitching ass. Derek sighs at the feel of his nimble fingers sliding in, then gasps as they zero in on his prostate. Stiles’ other hand joins Derek’s on his cock and together they stroke it, Derek stripping the shaft while Stiles works the head. 

Derek moans into Stiles’ mouth, his hand carding through his hair to cup the curve of his skull as Stiles pushes him relentlessly to another orgasm. The three fingers in his ass fuck in and out of him, dragging over his prostate on each pull while the nimble fingers on his cock tease his slit and crown and smear pre-come all over the sensitive head. Stiles’ thumbnail catches in Derek’s slit and he comes, again, jerking and shuddering as Stiles milks him ruthlessly until he’s whining and squirming away from the almost painful sensations. Stiles lets him go, wiping his hands on the bedspread before running them soothingly up and down Derek’s sides and thighs.

"Was that what you needed?" Stiles asks between languid kisses.

Derek hmms and rolls them back over, draping himself over Stiles’ chest and sucking a meandering trail of wet kisses down Stiles’ come-tacky torso.

"I’ll tell you when we’re done," he says, and reaches for another condom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit where credit is due, this whole mess was provoked by [eeames’ Hoechleteeth tag](http://eeames.tumblr.com/tagged/tyler+hoechlin+teeth+appreciation+tag). Therefore, I claim no responsibility and no consequences can be laid upon my shoulders.


	26. Welcome to Beacon Hills pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Teen Wolf/Welcome to Night Vale crossover, because I couldn't resist.

Stiles doesn’t find out about Beacon Hills’ community news blog until a few months after he first moves into town as the new Deputy. It’s probably a good thing, since it means that he’s had a while to acclimatize himself to Beacon Hills’ general bizarreness and the exceedingly creepy way people call him ‘Derek’s Deputy’ as opposed to Deputy Stilinski.

(“Deputy Stilinski,” Stiles hisses manically into his phone after a torturous double shift. “ _Deputy Stilinski.”_  

His dad makes a sympathetic noise in response.)

But after months of wondering who the hell this ‘Derek’ asshole is, it’s nice to at least put some personality to the name. Not a face though, since the blog, called  _Welcome to Beacon Hills,_  has absolutely no pictures of its creator. 

There are, however, a lot of pictures of  _Stiles_. Pictures of him in his cruiser, eating lunch at the Wendy’s, ticketing Peter Hale, ticketing Peter Hale again and again, (Stiles keeps a meticulous record of his many encounters with Peter Hale just in case he needs to file a sexual harassment suit against the creep), doing paperwork at his desk at the station, and so on and so forth. Bewildered and freaked out and intensely curious, Stiles hunts down the blog posts from the day of his arrival. _  
_

 _Stiles smiled, his perfect moles shifting into a flawless recreation of the constellation of the mysterious lights above the Wendy’s, a_ _nd I fell in love instantly_.

"Oh my god," Stiles says faintly, mortified (and a little charmed).

(“A stalker,” Stiles wails into his phone, trying for vicious outrage and landing instead in breathless giddiness.  _"A stalker!"_

His dad sighs in response.)


	27. That awkward moment when pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of [this ficlet](1772135), because [Juleon](../../../users/Juleon/pseuds/Juleon) begged so prettily and my muse was willing to play along.

Derek is minding his own business, sitting at the tiny dining table in his sister’s apartment with his face buried in his folded arms and mourning all the undoubtedly terrible decisions that have led him to this point in his life, when Laura drops down into the chair across from him and says, “Wow baby bro, you got fucking  _wasted_   last night.”

And it’s not like Derek doesn’t remember, okay? He remembers every last mortifying detail, brain painfully clear thanks to his own metabolism and all the water his sister and her friends basically forced down his throat. He presses his face further into the cradle of his arms and moans piteously.

"Yeah," Laura continues. "You kept muttering ‘the birthday girl’ under your breath whenever you looked at Heather and I think you hit on Uncle Peter’s boss."

Derek contemplates sliding down off the chair and onto the floor. Maybe Laura will forget he’s there if she can’t see him under the table.

"By the way, I gave him hell about getting you shitfaced, but apparently he didn’t do it on purpose and he felt really bad about it. He’s a pretty decent guy. Well," Laura amends, "decent for a guy who willingly hangs out with Uncle P in his free time. I approve of your taste in men, baby brother, for all that your taste in women is horrifically abysmal."

Derek presses his hands over his ears and slouches lower in his chair. “Oh my god,” he moans piteously. “ _Shut up._ ”

"So I guess you don’t want his personal number, then?" Laura says faux-innocently. "He left it specifically for you, but I guess I can throw it-"

Derek lunges across the table, grabbing Laura’s arm as she stands, presumably on her way to toss the number in the trash.

"What," he says, wide-eyed. "He left— Seriously? He left his number?"

Laura smirks down at Derek, all shiny white teeth and malicious glee.


	28. Welcome to Beacon Hills pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ALL HAIL THE GLOW CLOUD.
> 
> A continuation of [this](1787799), because because.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't listen to Welcome to Night Vale, this will probably not make any sense whatsoever. Your options therefore are either to a) listen to WtNV, b) let yourself become consumed by WtNV, or c) despise Steve Carlsberg with the force of a thousand burning desert suns.
> 
> Or you could just skip to the next chapter, I guess.

It’s Matt Daehler who calls the Sheriff’s department, and it’s Matt Daehler who’s waiting on the sidewalk when Stiles pulls up in his cruiser to address his complaint. Matt Daehler, who Stiles has neither talked to, nor even met before this moment, but Matt Daehler who Stiles instinctively hates because he’s been steadily catching up on Derek’s blog,  _Welcome to Beacon Hills_ and Derek, modest, adoring Derek, absolutely despises the guy.

Still, it’s Stiles’ job to treat everyone equal in the eyes of the law, so he puts on his lawman face and goes over to where Matt Daehler is impatiently tapping his foot and inappropriately fondling his camera.

"That cloud is obstructing my photography," Matt Daehler says shrilly, gesturing at the glowing cloud floating above the dog park. "Arrest it for loitering!"

Stiles looks up at the gently strobing cloud, watching it change from azure to indigo in peaceful ripples. Then he looks away, blinking hard to dispel the light hypnotic daze and cursing himself for forgetting to put on his department-mandated aviators before looking at magic-based phenomena. The aviators might look hella douchey, but they protect him from mind-altering magics based on eye contact. 

Properly bespectacled, Stiles looks up again at the cloud. It’s been a pretty benign presence in Beacon Hills since randomly showing up one day, raining small live animals wherever it goes but never anything bigger than a slightly starved tabby. (According to Derek’s blog, The Hales took the cat in and named it Annie Get Your Gun, or Aggie for short.)

Stiles crosses over to the edge of the dog park, careful not to stand too close. On the other side of the fence, in the improbably dense forest, shadows seethe.

"Um, excuse me," he calls up to the cloud. A moment later, all the hair on his body stands on end and he gets the severe feeling of being  _watched_. “Uh, hi. Yeah.”

The cloud ripples in a fan of purple-red-peach. Stiles chooses to interpret it as a reciprocated greeting.

"So, Mr. Daehler over there seems to want to take photos of the dog park for some reason," Stiles says, gesturing in Matt Daehler’s general direction. "And while I would ordinarily say that he has no grounds for a reasonable complaint, the dog park is technically a no loitering zone. For the safety of the citizenry, you see. But since you’re new in town, I can probably let you off with a warning. So if I could please ask you to maybe loiter on the other side of the street, that’d be great."

The cloud strobes green-blue-ultraviolet and obediently drifts across the street, the bulk of its mass now hovering over the new froyo place. A massive bull crocodile falls out of the cloud and crushes the car parked in front. Matt Daehler’s car, if Derek’s sneering description and Matt Daehler’s scream of rage are anything to go by.

The cloud quickly flashes a series of yellows and oranges, like it’s embarrassed, but Stiles feels a sly brush of amusement in his left ulna.

 _I’m Allison_ , the glowing cloud mindwhispers into his skull, trilling a rainbow of giggly indigos across his inferior parietal lobe. With his ears, Stiles hears Matt Daehler screaming and ranting crazily.  _Sorry if I’m making trouble for you, but he’s been a complete jerk to me all day._

 _No trouble at all, miss,_ Stiles thinks back.

(“Best friends,” Stiles crows to his dad later that day. “ _Best friends._ ”

His dad laughs.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so you WtNV listeners need to [send me some prompts or something](http://sheepnamedpig.tumblr.com/ask) because I want to write more of this verse but I literally do not know what to write about. And before you ask, no, Sheriff Stilinski is will not be the shadowy leader of the Sheriff's Secret Police. But if any of you prompt about wheat and wheat byproducts, I'm totally going to report you to the SSP and get that sweet stop sign immunity.


	29. Needs moar pegging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked for: Pregnant!Stiles still working to fill subby!Derek’s needs.

As happy as Stiles is to be pregnant, to watch her belly and breasts swell with a kid that’s going to be half her and half Derek, she really misses pegging her husband  _properly_. She misses her favorite harness, misses watching her fake dick disappear into Derek’s sweet little hole, misses pounding him into the mattress like the world will end if she doesn’t drill him straight through to China.

Instead, she has to make do with this: Derek riding a dildo suction-cupped to the kitchen floor while she moves around him, making dinner and occasionally adjusting his pace with the tip of her riding crop.

It’s not bad, per se. She gets to circle him, teasing him from all angles with the tip of the crop, sliding it up his spine, over the peak of a nipple, along the insides of his thighs, but still,  _pegging_. She presses the shaft of the crop down onto his shoulder and he stops bouncing, sinking down the dildo until he’s sitting almost flat on the floor. He stares up at her with glazed, unfocused eyes.

Stiles briefly wishes she could drop her panties and have him eat her out, but with her belly as big as it is, he’d probably disappear completely behind it, broad shoulders and all. Derek whines, sensing her disappointment. She ruffles his hair, carding through the dense strands, then grips it tightly, pulling him up and pushing him down until he’s steadily fucking himself on the dildo again.

"Once this kid gets born I’m gonna fuck you so hard," she croons, rapping the end of the crop against his balls every time he bottoms out. "I’m gonna fuck you so hard that even your werewolf ass will be feeling it for a solid week."

Derek doesn’t say anything, just gazes up at her with an enraptured expression that says everything.


	30. The Little Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Little Mermaid, reversed. Welcome to the other 70%, Derek.

The Sorceress Kate’s potion burns in Derek’s throat, echoing the ache in his face where she took the beauty of his features in payment in addition to his voice, turning him malformed and mute and helpless. The burn spreads down through his body, expanding into his legs and he tears at the fastenings of his breeches, shoving them, and his boots, down and off as his legs begin to fuse together. It’s disgusting to watch; the bones and muscles shift visibly under the skin, blood welling from a thousand small incisions as scales push up out of his pores.

Gills open up, painful and bleeding like slashes of a knife, arcing along his ribs and back. His breath abruptly goes short and he claws desperately at his throat with one hand, reaching toward the sea with the other.

Every tissue in his body screams with the agony of transformation and Derek crawls toward the surf, dragging his heavy tail. His hair falls out all at once, drifting in tufts to the sand like black snow. More scales come up through his scalp and the skin of his upper body and he drips rivulets of blood onto the wet sand.

His vision tunnels just as he reaches the gentle waves. He hauls himself forward and collapses into the surf, unconscious.

He’s underwater when he comes to, his gills fanning gently in the stiller water below the waves. The pain is mostly gone but for a lingering ache, a sense of wrongness that feels embedded in his bones. 

He gives his new tail a flip and glides forward, curling through the water as he learns how to move all over again. Most of it comes easily, as though the knowledge is embedded in the spelled bone and muscle of his new form, and when he feels like he has a decent grasp on the mechanics, he turns out to face the dark, endless water.

Somewhere, out in the dark depths of the ocean, there’s a merboy that Derek sold his face and voice for. His soul calls out for the boy that he’d found, harpooned and gasping in a stale tide pool, that he’d shared all his secret thoughts and hopes with as the boy recovered, that he’d carried back into the ocean, the boy gasping and trustingly limp in his arms. The boy that Derek has three lunar cycles to find and seduce before the potion's magic runs out.

The silent blackness is terrifying to the old, primordial parts of Derek’s human mind, but he angles for it anyway, slipping away from the familiar shore with only a handful of memories and a name to guide him.

_Stiles, wait for me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dare you to tell me that fractured fairy tales aren't your favorite kind of fairy tale.


	31. Have soem pegging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of [this](1802528) prompt fic for [creeperdwarf](http://creeperdwarf.tumblr.com/).

It’s about three months before Stiles has a change to come through on her promise. Three frustrating, sleepless, amazing months. (It might’ve gone on even longer than that, but her dad basically kidnaps his own grandchild one evening and tells her and Derek to decompress a little before they implode, so it’s only three months. He’s barely out the door before Stiles hauls Derek to the bedroom and snarls an order to come as many times as he can.)

She ties him up, ties him down, uses every inch of padded leather strap they have then improvises with Derek’s belts when he begs for more. The plain pinewood paddle comes first; she swings it at Derek’s ass until even his werewolf healing can’t keep up, his ass glowing cherry red as she pants and sweats with the exertion. The feather is next, though it doesn’t last long. It’s torturous for both of them, Derek for the sensation of the light brushes against his sensitive ass, and Stiles who has to take so many deep, calming breaths that she gets a lightheaded. After a few minutes she gives up and just stuffs her face in Derek’s crack.

Derek yowls like a tortured cat, bucking against her face as best he can with what little leverage he has. Stiles doesn’t stop until her mouth goes sore and slack and Derek is a whimpering puddle of dazed werewolf.

She gives them both a breather then, turning him onto his back (the bedspread is dark where he bit and came on it) and sitting on his face through two screaming orgasms. They take the edge off, at least. And Derek does look so pretty when he’s buried in her snatch, cheeks and nose shiny with her juices.

He’s practically catatonic when she rolls off of him to paw through their toys. The nipple clamps go on first; she gives the connecting chain a teasing pull, then puts the string of links in Derek’s mouth, tacit permission to pull as he likes. Over his clamped nipples, she tapes two bullet vibrators. Derek jolts and arches with a low wail. Stiles puts the gag in over the chain after that.

Her fingers dither over the cock rings, lingering fondly over vibrating one, but eventually she decides not to. She doesn’t want anything limiting Derek’s ability to come. At least, not right now. Instead, she goes for the string of ben wa balls. 

She has to kick him over onto his side to put them in, which puts uncomfortable pressure on his bound arms, so she goes quick, slicking and stretching Derek just enough to get the balls in. She anchors the loop on the end with a dildo so it doesn’t get lost inside, then follows the balls with a modest vibrating plug. Not too thick though, she wants Derek tight when she fucks him.

And then she lays on top of him and proceeds to worship his body with her hands and mouth as he writhes and keens beneath her. His cock jerks erratically against her belly and she grinds helpfully down against it, riding the wave of his body. She’s pretty sure he comes at least once, but he’s already shot himself dry and he never softens, so she can’t be sure.

Stiles takes her time exploring Derek’s body, relearning the taste of his skin, the feel of his flexing muscles beneath her palms, the scent of his musky crotch. It’s all beautiful to her and she revels in it, from the sweaty border of his hairline to the whorls on his toes. On her way back up she trails lazy kisses up his legs, pausing to inspect the jut of his ankles and the caps of his knees with her mouth. She turns the plug off, then the bullet vibrators over his nipples. 

Derek slowly stills, twitching intermittently like a car engine ticking as it cools. She eases the spit-slick gag out of his mouth and massages the jaw muscles, peppering kisses on his cherry-red face. She licks her lips and tastes the salt of his sweat.

"Still wanna get fucked?" she asks, petting his damp hair. Derek’s whole body gives an interested twitch. She busses his forehead and lifts up to prep.

She takes off the bullet vibrators and clamps first, teasing the swollen nubs and breathing cool air over them. Out comes the plug, then the string of ben wa balls, Derek’s hole stretching obscenely over each of them.

Derek’s favorite dildo is an indigo-colored monstrosity, ridged and bumpy but softer than a real cock. She snaps the base of it into her leather harness and steps into its leather loops. After so many months of neglect, the leather is stiff and her fingers clumsy on the buckles, (not to mention the baby weight still lingering in her hips and thighs that pulls the straps tighter than usual), but Derek is whining and squirming in his restraints like the greedy little boy he is, so she ignores the chafing, rolls on a condom, and hastily lubes up.

Stiles doesn’t give him any more prep than two thin fingers and a lot of lube, so his hole resists when she presses the head of the dildo against it. She doesn't let up though, and eventually Derek opens to her cock like a flower opens to the sun, eagerly and beautifully. She forces his bound legs up and sinks home on an easy thrust.

Derek’s mouth falls open on a sigh as his body remembers how to embrace the intrusion.

Then she pulls out, kicks him over onto his belly, and slams back in, going straight into a fast, punishing fuck that makes Derek scream and thrash against the leather restraints.

Stiles doesn’t let up for a heartbeat, fucking him until her body can’t maintain it anymore, then shifting them to a new position so she can use different muscle groups to fuck him into oblivion.

Everything goes slippery with sweat as she pounds into him. Her thigh muscles twinge and she rolls Derek onto his side, straddling one thigh and raising the other to fuck into him sideways. When her back muscles start complaining, she drags him to the edge of the bed and stands between his lewdly gaping thighs. She fucks him hard and brutal until he stutters out a signal to slow down, then fucks him long and slow until he greenlights her for more.

He takes it, gorgeously, gone shameless with pleasure. Stiles thinks she counts a few orgasms, wrung forcefully from his shaking body, but Stiles no longer knows how to tell. They’ve never gone this far before.

Maybe they could’ve gone even farther than this, but Stiles spent forty weeks pregnant and then another three months too busy for sex, and her diminished stamina is almost spent.

Stiles is the one to signal yellow this time. She slows her pace, gently working Derek’s cock as she rocks him to one last dry orgasm, then unsnaps the dildo from her harness, freeing herself to collapse on the bed next to him without forcing him to relinquish the fullness in his ass.

Her hands shake as she unbuckles the restraints, sweaty fingers slipping over metal and leather. He watches her from beneath barely opened eyelids and doesn't lift a single finger to help.

She ends up kicking the whole mess of leather over the edge of the bed, then shimmies out of her harness, sending that over too. Exhausted, she curls up against Derek’s shaking body and lets him slip a hand between her thighs. He’s barely awake, eyelids fluttering closed more often than open, but his big fingers diligently work her clit to an easy orgasm. It’s the perfect end to a great night, and they fall asleep in each others’ trembling arms.


	32. Baby's first sounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [msdistress](http://msdistress.tumblr.com/) asked if I'd ever written a sounding fic before.
> 
> At that point, I had not. But now I have.

Derek likes to climb into Stiles’ room sometimes, when the ache of missing him gets a little too sharp to ignore. They text and Skype when they can, but Stiles is in the honors program at his university in freaking  _Boston_  and shares a dorm room with three other guys, and Derek hasn’t so much as  _seen_  Stiles’ cock in almost eight weeks, now.

So yeah, sometimes Derek climbs into Stiles’ room to roll around on his bed, whatever.

This time though, there’s a slim cardboard box on the foot of the bed, some package that Stiles got in the mail and his dad tossed into his room for him to find when he gets back. Or at least, that’s what Derek thinks until he looks at the mailing addresses.

It’s not addressed to Stiles at all; the TO: is filled in with Derek’s name but followed by the Stilinski’s home address, while the FROM: lists S. Stilinski and the address of his dorm in Boston. Derek sniffs the package, and over the usual scents of the postal service are bacon and a brief smudge of the Sheriff’s scent, like the man picked it up and then hastily dropped it, then delivered to Stiles’ room with a pair of bacon-smelling tongs.

(The real stuff, not that turkey bacon Stiles insists on. Not that Stiles will be finding that out from Derek. Derek knows what side his bread is buttered on.)

Derek slits the tape open with a claw and pulls out a nondescript zippered case. On the front of the case is a post-it note with a smiley face drawn on it.

Inside is a set of eight round metal rods, each about a foot long and gently curved at the ends. They graduate in size, the thinnest being about the width of the tine of a fork and the largest being thicker than Derek’s pinky finger. He stares at them, confused.

There’s a thickly stuffed envelope in the bottom of the box and he opens it, pulling out folded printouts and pamphlets on, on…

On urethral sounding.

Derek drops the whole mess back on the bed and throws himself out the window, appalled, confused, and a little aroused in spite of himself.

He’s back an hour later, grimly determined. He collects the sounds and the fruit of Stiles’ undoubtedly meticulous research, writes a note for the Sheriff saying he’s still on for Thanksgiving, and goes home, red in the face and squirming with paranoia that someone will glance into his car and _know_.

He tells himself he’ll steel his nerves, go through the research, and try it in a week if he’s ready.

And then Stiles texts with a photo, showing off the leather gloves he bought to replace his fraying knitted ones, and Derek just sort of falls over onto his bed, zippered case in one hand and lube in the other.

The reading Stiles oh-so-helpfully provided is pretty straightforward: use lube, go slow, sharp pain is bad. The first sound is too thin, sliding in without much sensation. The second is better, but the third is jackpot. He holds his cock up and the gravity drops the sound halfway down the shaft in one easy slide. He takes a few deep breaths, massages his balls and perineum, and pushes the sound deeper.

It feels strange. Uncomfortable, even with successive reapplications of lube, and outright painful when he tries to turn the sound to fit it deeper but accidentally turns it the wrong way. But it’s intense and his toes curl and feet flex as the sound slips deeper. The curved end bends up to rest where the urethra passes through the prostate and Derek gasps, pulling his legs up in a reflexive reaction to his prostate being stimulated. But there’s no cock in him this time, real or otherwise, just a thin rod of metal that makes him want to arch and rut.

He slicks up a finger and pushes it into his twitching ass, imagining that it’s Stiles’ long finger reaching in and massaging his prostate from the outside while his other hand fucks it from the inside with short little nudges of the metal sound. Derek keens and arches and cries Stiles’ name, and Allison and Lydia watch, flushed and slack-jawed, from the open doorway.

 

 

(They just wanted to borrow his stand mixer.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> deREK THIS IS WHY PEOPLE BUY HOMES WITH FRONT DOORS THAT _LOCK_.
> 
> Allison actually did just want to borrow Derek's stand mixer because Papa Argent broke his and with Thanksgiving just around the corner he refused to leave his kitchen long enough to go out and buy a new one. So Allison dragged Lydia over to Derek's to borrow his, which is nicer than her dad's old one anyway.


	33. First impressions... didn't someone write a book about those?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slob!Derek makes an improbably good first impression with the hot new neighbor across the street. And then he has to live up to it.

“Yes,” Laura says.

“No,” Derek replies

“Yes.”

“No.”

“ _Yes_.”

“ _No._ ”

“Yes!”

“No!

“YES!”

“NO!”

“NO!”

“YES!”

Laura fistpumps. “Yes!”

Derek drops his head in his hands and moans, “Noooo.”

She pats him on the head. “Derek, you are so stupid I almost feel bad about taking advantage of you. Except not really. Now get up, take a shower, and put some real person clothes on. You’re going to say hi to your new neighbors if it kills you in the process.”

Derek grunts and scrubs his fingers through his unkempt and slightly greasy hair, but goes begrudgingly to freshen up. He even brushes his teeth, and fie on Laura who says he never makes an effort.

There’s an outfit already laid out on his bed when he gets out, the unworn green cashmere sweater his mom got him for Christmas a few years back and a pair of the super tight jeans his uncle insists on buying for him all the time. Derek hates them, hates the way they cling and constrict his movement, and he goes to his bureau only to discover that Laura has emptied out all his sweats and shorts and comfortable jeans, leaving only Peter’s skinny jeans behind.

“Laura! Laura, I am not wearing these jeans,” he shouts toward the living room.

“For god’s sake, Derek, grow a pair and put the damn jeans on!” she shouts back.

Derek glares at the jeans in question. “If I grow a pair I won’t even be able to fit in the stupid things,” he mutters as he steps into the plain grey boxer briefs Laura laid out for him. He puts his socks on next, since he probably won’t be able to bend far enough to put them on once he’s got the damn pants on.

It takes him twenty minutes of squirming and yanking to get the things on and reasonably settled. He leans over to pick up the green sweater and the denim tightens ominously over his ass and thighs. Careful not to bend any further, lest the seams pop and give Laura even  _more_  reason to mock him, he snags the sweater with his fingertips and hauls it on. A glance in the direction of the mirror and he pronounces himself dressed and minces gingerly into the living room.

Laura wolf-whistles, then goes at his hair, finger-combing the mostly wet mess of it off his forehead. “Much nicer, baby bro. You look like a real boy and everything!”

Derek rolls his eyes expansively. “Can we just get this over with?”

“Sure,” Laura chirps. “On one condition.”

Derek eyes her warily. “What.”

“Smiiiiile,” Laura says, pinching his cheeks.

“No.”

“Yes.” She boops his nose and grabs his keys and their mom’s famous New-Neighbor Casserole off his cluttered coffee table. “Now let’s go welcome your new neighbors.”

Derek follows her sulkily out the door, watches as she locks  _his_ door behind them, the door of the house that he bought with his own gainfully earned money, and follows her across the street to where the new neighbors are supposedly getting themselves settled in. He hasn’t seen them yet, being the sort of person who  _doesn’t snoop in other people’s business, Laura_.

Laura stops him on the sidewalk. “Okay, let’s see those pearly whites.”

Derek curls his lips away from his teeth. Laura rolls her eyes. “Point five out of ten, would not recommend.” She sighs and shakes her head, the same way their mother does when she’s quietly disappointed. It’s blatant emotional manipulation, but Derek folds like a house of cards anyway. He rubs his face with both hands and stretches his mouth into a close-lipped smile, squinting his eyes for effect.

Laura gives it a critical stare, then shrugs. “Six out of ten, but it’ll have to do.” They head up onto the walk and up the steps of the porch. There’s a rectangular outline on the wood in front of the door where his old neighbor’s welcome mat used to lay.

Laura rings the doorbell. There’s voices, then footsteps and someone fumbling with the locks, and the door swings open to reveal a guy. A guy who is one thousand percent Derek’s type.

Derek’s fake smile relaxes and widens with genuine surprised pleasure. And, like an idiot, he leans in, holds out his hand, and says, “Hi! I’m Derek.”

Laura’s jaw drops in shock, but Derek is too entranced by his gorgeously perfect new neighbor to notice.

The guy tentatively smiles back and shakes Derek’s hand. His fingers are fucking  _sinful_  and Derek’s dick valiantly tries to pop a boner within the confines of its denim prison. He licks his lips—holy shit, his  _mouth_ _—_ and says, “I’m Stiles. Nice to meet you.”

And Derek falls in lust,  _instantly_.


	34. Teachers can want the D, too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [creeperdwarf](http://creeperdwarf.tumblr.com/) asked for: teacher!Derek bottoming for student!Stiles.

Derek doesn’t know how he got here, bent over a desk in his classroom with his pants around his ankles and his shirt rucked up to his armpits while a seventeen year-old fucks him from behind.

(Actually, he knows exactly how he got here; he was staying late and grading essays in lieu of going back to his hollow apartment and got a text reading  _DTF?_ , to which he replied,  _yeah_.

(Actually, he was subbing in sophomore history and his eyes caught and clung to a pair of pink, pink lips. He’s been a fool ever since.)

The edge of the desk cuts into his thighs—he’ll have ruler-straight bruises later—and he grips it, pulling himself back into Stiles’ thrusts, his chest slipping sweat-slick over the smooth surface of the desk. Stiles grips him by the hips and pins him to stillness, then ups his pace, fucking him with short, quick jabs that make Derek choke on sparking pleasure.

(Stiles, for all that he’s an impulsive teenager, is more cautious in this than Derek is. Derek doesn’t like to think about what that says about himself.

(But if it’s important, Stiles will tell him anyway.)

Stiles slows, lengthening his strokes until he pulls out, rubbing the head of his dick up and down over Derek’s grasping hole, coyly dipping in, feinting away to trail pre-come and lube down Derek’s taint to his drawn-up balls.

"Please," Derek asks. Stiles lines his dick back up and pushes in slowly, both of them savoring the taut stretch of the initial breach. The angle changes as Stiles leans down, curling over Derek’s back to kiss away the sweat at the nape of his neck.

"Thank you," Derek breathes, and Stiles briefly nuzzles the hairline before straightening.

(Ask Derek about Chaucer. Ask him about  _Catch 22_ ,  _The Color Purple,_  Johnathan Swift, _Harry Potter_ , hell, ask him about  _The Tale of Genji_ , and Derek will tell you all about themes and characters and technique and style.  _  
_

(Ask him about Stiles and his words will dry up like a drop of water on a Death Valley summer day.)

Stiles grinds and ruts as he gets close. Long, nimble fingers dance over Derek’s cock and balls, tugging and caressing and teasing until Derek reaches back, catching Stiles’ hip in a desperate grasp. He jerks back and forth between Stiles’ groin and hands. Stiles leaves him to it for a cruelly long while, then finally takes him firmly in hand, lightly massaging his sac as he roughly jerks Derek’s leaking cock to orgasm. Come jets out, streaking the chair and the floor under the desk. Stiles gasps at the sudden clench of Derek’s ass and spills, filling Derek with teenage spunk.

It’s Stiles who cleans up, running baby wipes carefully over their genitals and scrubbing away streaks of milky come. It’s Stiles who smooths down Derek’s shirt, tucks them into his pants, buckles the belt, and guides arms into a blazer. It’s Stiles who shuffles Derek’s papers into neat stacks and collects his keys and wallet and messenger bag.

(It’s Stiles who wraps steady arms around Derek and cradles him as the last of the shaking subsides, Stiles who is cradling more than just Derek’s body.)


	35. Technical Difficulties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [xanotherrandomblogx](http://xanotherrandomblogx.tumblr.com/) prompted: Married sterek, future, jealous!Stiles.

Stiles peers around the edge of the door frame into the bedroom, frowns, and turns to glare down at his dick. 

 _This is_ your _fault,_  he mouths at it,  _why can’t you freaking vibrate!_

The buzzing ticks up a level and Derek moans pornographically, the slick sounds of the vibrator sliding in and out of his ass absolute hell to Stiles and his non-vibrating penis.

Though, maybe there’s a spell, some sort of sex spell that will give Stiles’ dick magic vibrating abilities. There’s gotta have been some sort of demand for recreational spells at some point, right? Back in the days before modern vibrators? Stiles hies back to his office to do some research.

Derek’s moans follow him down the hall, but if Derek can prefer a vibrator to his husband’s dick, then Stiles can prefer his books to Derek’s ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you ask, no, I can't be persuaded to continue this one, for that way lies a quagmire of relationship angst and couples counseling and I refuse to be party to that.


	36. Cherry boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [flagonsandapples](http://flagonsandapples.tumblr.com/) prompted: First time bottoming for Derek, who seriously didn’t think he’d be this nervous. (Or that it would be so damn good.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: College sports team AU.

The way Derek offers to catch sets Stiles’ teeth on edge, makes him want to punch his teammate/fuckbuddy/frenemy in the face until his straight nose flattens and his stubble is matted with blood. He offers like he’s doing Stiles this huge fucking  _favor_ , like yeah, he’ll take it up the ass from Stiles, but Stiles is going to owe him blowjobs from now until infinity in exchange.

Stiles sucks it in, pretends to be pleased, grateful, and plots revenge.

He starts the actual sex off with a blowjob, pulling out all his tricks and aces and emptying his metaphorical sleeves until Derek is sobbing with pleasure, already more undone than Stiles has ever seen him before. And then Stiles rolls him over and repeats the treatment on Derek’s ass, pulling back every time Derek gets close to coming and forcing his tired mouth to work the tight pucker until the whole bottom half of his face aches. By then, Derek is clawing at the sheets and pushing his ass desperately back into Stiles’ mouth.

_Hah, not so fucking smug now, are you, Hale?_

He gives Derek a chance to cool down a little while he gets the lube and condoms. A pillow gets wedged under Derek’s groin, lifting his ass.

The first finger goes in with no resistance at all; Derek’s gone limp with pleasure, his whole body a relaxed puddle of muscle and moaning. The second doesn’t meet much resistance either. Derek moans as a third finger stretches him open.

Stiles takes care to go slow, never stretching Derek beyond what he can take, never letting him feel anything sharper than the warm stretch of his sphincter. Derek needs to associate catching with mind-blowing pleasure, not pain. He pets Derek’s prostate from inside his ass, pressing only just hard enough to be felt, and as Derek relaxes further, Stiles starts pumping his fingers in and out of his slick hole.

Derek rocks with it, riding the back-and-forth like he was born to it and groaning like an amateur porn star. Stiles eases a fourth finger into Derek and he sighs like he’s found fucking Nirvana or something. Stiles grits his teeth, abruptly furious that he can’t see Derek’s face while he takes the man apart. He eases his fingers out, ignoring Derek’s whine, and rolls him over.

Derek is red from his hairline to his belly, his eyes glazed and expression full of awe. Stiles slides his fingers back in one at a time and watches Derek’s eyelashes flutter and his mouth open into a soundless ‘oh’.

"Like that, huh?" he asks smugly. He gives his fingers a twist and Derek’s abs twitch. "Look at you, taking it like you were made for it."

Derek’s mouth shapes a ‘no’ and his eyebrows furrow.

Stiles smirks cruelly. “You’re gonna love this from now on. You’re gonna want it up the ass all the time, probably won’t even be able to get hard at the sight of some other chick or dude offering up their own hole to get fucked.”

Derek whines and squirms, but his cock twitches and spits out a fat drop of pre-come.

"You’ll probably even beg for it. I can see it, you wandering around the locker room after a game, begging the guys to fuck your little pussy." Stiles scissors his fingers as much as he can in the virgin-tight clench of Derek’s ass. "But they’ll never be as good as me. None of them will ever make you feel as good as I did, right?"

Derek doesn’t answer, so Stiles smacks his asscheek.

“ _Right?_ " he insists.

"Yes!" Derek cries, rolling his hips down onto Stiles’ fingers.

 _Check and fucking mate_ , Stiles thinks. He rips open the foil condom package and it on one-handed, slicking himself as he tests the give of Derek’s rim.

Derek whines when Stiles pulls his fingers out, then rocks eagerly down when Stiles lines his cock up, the tip disappearing into Derek’s ass without Stiles having to move at all. He looks up at Derek’s face from under his eyebrows and makes a mental note to get Derek to ride him. If he can manage it, it'll definitely be a fuck to remember.

He pushes in slowly, breathing out on a long hiss as Derek’s virgin hole squeezes him. He’s drowned out entirely by Derek’s throaty moan. Stiles gives a few experimental thrusts and realizes that he’s not going to last as long as he’d hoped.

Calculating the angles in his head, Stiles lifts Derek’s legs up onto his shoulders and cants his hips, thrusting up and in. Derek shouts and grabs at the sheets so Stiles keeps doing what he’s doing, only experimenting a little to see what works and what doesn’t. Eventually he finds the perfect angle, the one that makes Derek go ‘oh’ with each thrust.

Meanwhile, Stiles thinks about everything he can to keep from coming. He thinks about calculus, about intestines, about the ancient civilian aide at his dad’s Sheriff’s Department who always seems to know where everything is. He thinks about the condescending smirk Derek had given him when he’d offered to bottom.

He thinks about his mom.

He looks down at Derek, Derek who has done nothing to wrong him aside from be a close-minded jerk, and thinks his mom would be disappointed in him.

Stiles clasps Derek’s neglected cock and jerks it firmly, twisting over the head the way he knows Derek likes best, and watches Derek shout and shudder through what looks like an amazing orgasm. Stiles comes too, rutting into the clenching heat of Derek’s body, but it feels hollow and disappointing.

He pulls out as soon as he can, smoothing a hand over Derek’s side when he grunts in discomfort, and disposes of the condom. A quick look at Derek’s hole shows no damage, and though he’ll probably be sore, it’ll be the good, well-fucked sore and not the bad-hurt-pain sore. Stiles wipes them both down with a damp washcloth and starts pulling on his clothes, feeling thoroughly disgusted with himself.

Derek pushes himself up on wobbly arms. “You’re not-?”

Because Stiles usually stays the night, crashing in Derek’s bed to avoid his fucking Aryan Brotherhood wannabe roommate and his roommate’s godawful racist asshole gang buddies.

"No," Stiles says. "I’ve got—shit to do. See you around." 

He’s turning the door knob when Derek fucking  _collides_  with him, pancaking him against the door and pinning him there with his ridiculous bulk. Stiles thrashes but Derek’s like a goddamn wall.

"So what," Derek snarls at the back of Stiles’ head. "That’s it? I let you fuck me and suddenly I'm not good enough for you anymore?"

"I don’t owe you a single goddamn thing, asshole," Stiles spits. Derek’s weight abruptly lessens so that he’s not squishing Stiles against the door so much as just holding him there.

Derek sighs and Stiles feels his breath on the nape of his neck.

"You’re right," Derek says quietly,  _resignedly_. “Sorry. I’m sorry. You can leave any time you want.”

Stiles stares blankly at the door. Derek says it like he’s bitterly jealous, like he wishes he could leave, too. And what— _what the fuck_. Stiles gulps for breath like the air around him has gone too thin. Stiles and Derek, StilesandDerek, they—

"We barely  _tolerate_  each other,” Stiles says desperately.

"No," Derek says. " _You_  barely tolerate  _me_. I do whatever it fucking takes to get you to just look at me for a while.”

Stiles gets that feeling again, that desperate need to see Derek’s face and read what he’s feeling in his eyebrows and the fine creases around his eyes. But he doesn’t turn, doesn’t even peek.

"I don’t love you," Stiles blurts.

"I know," Derek says. It’s so matter-of-fact that Stiles feels guilty in spite of himself.

"I don’t even like you, most days."

"I know that too."

"You’re a complete jerk."

"So’re you."

Stiles’ hand clenches around the doorknob. Derek is hardly leaning against him anymore, more a body-warm presence at his back. Stiles could easily elbow him out of the way and escape. He squeezes the knob and stands still. _  
_

"Normal people ask each other out."

Derek gasps quietly and sways into Stiles. His hands come up on either side of Stiles to brace against the door, but it feels less like he’s caging Stiles in and more like he’s holding onto the wood to keep from holding onto  _Stiles_.

"Will you go out with me?" Derek asks, breathy and hopeful.

Stiles suspects that this will either be the absolute best or absolute worst decision of his life. There won’t be any in-between, not with Stiles and Derek.

He takes a deep breath, his back meeting Derek’s front as his ribcage expands.

"Yeah."


	37. I < 3 Y O U

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is a photocopier that only works when Stiles uses it. Thus, everyone in the office is always asking Stiles to do their copying when the line for the not-Derek copier gets too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno, you guys. I just don't know.

Stiles is  _in the zone_. He’s hammering through his work, pounding out emails, slamming those reports through, galvanizing his fellow employees while finessing the management and being an all-around model of productivity.

Then  _Erica_.

"Copy these for me," she commands, the snap of her gum audible over the thump of papers onto his desk. "The first three need to be double-sided. I need two copies of each, except for this one, this one, and this one, which I need six of, stat, so hop along."

Stiles grits his teeth and flexes his fingers over his keyboard. Dammit, he was  _in the zone_.

"Use Scott."

Erica snaps her gum again. “There’s six people already in line for Scott.”

"Then go downstairs and use R&D’s copier."

"Yeah, tried that. Lydia’s got her claws into it and I’m not suicidal, thanks."

Stiles sighs and pushes away from his desk, mourning his precious  _zone_  but picking up the stack of papers anyway. He slides the five lying on top into his left pocket, since the right is already full of the cash he's already collected today from other people farming out their copy jobs to him.

The fluorescents in the western copy room flicker on as Stiles enters, the energy-saving lights having gone out since Stiles was last in here. He’s really the only person who ever comes in here these days, ever since Kate Argent fucked up the copier that the cubicle monkeys named ‘Derek’. Now everyone uses ‘Scott’, the machine in the eastern copy room. Unlike Derek, it loves everyone, so there’s a line to use it more often than not.

"Hey, Derek," Stiles coos, running his hand over the document feeder. The machine is quiet and cool under his palm, hibernating in Power Saver Mode. Stiles taps the display and Derek hums to life, purring under Stiles’ experienced hands. "Mmm, you’re so good to me, baby. Faster and more efficient than that puppy Scott, aren’t you? Scott _wishes_ its prints were half as sharp as yours."

Stiles taps in the command for two double-sided copies and slots the first stack of paper into the feeder. Derek beeps at him, patient but thrumming gently with anticipation.

"Those other people, they don’t get you," Stiles says. He runs his hands along the trays, stroking his fingers along the ends. "But I do. I know just what you need and I’m gonna  _give_  it to you.”

He presses down firmly on the green Start button and Derek obediently starts sucking down Erica’s documents and churning out crisp, warm copies.

Stiles leans against Derek’s front, which radiates the heat of its internal functions. 

He caresses it and says, “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really don't know, okay?


	38. Arrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [reclininghorizontally](http://reclininghorizontally.tumblr.com/) prompted: Stiles was unexpectedly and incredibly turned on watching Derek be handcuffed and manhandled during his arrest back in season one and he gets preoccupied with the concept. He begins to find excuses to hold onto Derek’s wrists, not realizing it gets Derek just as hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU where Stiles was born a few years earlier but everything else remains the same.

_Derek Hale got hot_  is Stiles’ first thought when the man himself walks out of the ruins of his family’s old home. But then, the last time Stiles saw Derek was when they were both sophomores in high school and Derek was being pulled out of their chemistry class by the principal. So there’s that.

And then his dad is beckoning him forward and Stiles actually starts hearing what his dad is saying and okay, wow, apparently Derek Hale also got suspected of murder, and is in the process of getting arrested, and Stiles is the one circling around to Derek’s back, pulling thick forearms back and hooking cuffs onto broad, masculine wrists.

And wow, is this an inappropriate time to pop a boner or what?

He leads Derek out to a cruiser, one hand curled around a massive bicep and the other hooked over the chain of the cuffs, but all he can see is the way those wrists look, held captive.

Derek doesn’t stay at the station long. The dead girl is his sister Laura, the same Laura that Stiles remembers from school, and also she was killed by an animal, which Derek is actually not, so they let him go.

Stiles catches up with him on his way out.

"Hey, Derek," he says. He reaches out to catch Derek by the wrist without thinking. Derek freezes, then turns to face him, eyes going straight to where Stiles is gripping his wrist. Stiles snatches his hand away like it’s been scalded and shoves it into his pocket. Derek's arm slowly falls back to his side.

"Uh, hey. I’m sorry for your loss," Stiles says. He shuffles on his feet and avoids Derek’s pointed stare. "Laura was, I remember her from high school and she was always really cool. Didn’t take shit from nobody, smart as hell, could kick the lacrosse team’s collective ass with one hand tied behind her back. But she was still really friendly to everyone, too.

"I really looked up to her and it’s, well, I lost my mom and that gutted me, but if my dad died and I was alone, I’d- Crap. I’m fucking this up."

Stiles risks a glance at Derek’s face. It’s stonily impassive. Time to wrap up this one man humiliation show.

"I’m sorry for your loss," Stiles says, meeting Derek’s eyes. "And I’m sorry for your shitty welcome back to town. And y’know, if you need anything, just call and I’ll- _we’ll_ -somebody’ll help.”

Derek nods perfunctorily. And then he turns to go, walking out of the station and probably out of Stiles’ life entirely.

And all the while, Stiles watches his hands clenching and flexing and thinks about how they’d looked in those handcuffs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jfc 40 chapters what even


	39. Okaeri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [owlphallacies](http://owlphallacies.tumblr.com/) prompted: Something with a LOT of cuddling and making out or Derek fingering himself/getting fingered or something with a remote-controlled vibrator.

Derek is so lost in the feeling of his sphincter stretching around his fingers that he doesn’t even register Stiles coming home until he’s climbing onto the bed and leaning over Derek to kiss him hello.

"Don’t stop," Stiles says against his lips when Derek slides his fingers out, so he pushes them back in, his toes curling. Stiles slides a hand down Derek’s chest and belly, skirting around his leaking cock to press down on the backs of Derek’s fingers and Derek moans into Stiles’ mouth, chasing Stiles’ tongue with his own.

They kiss, slow and wet and lazy, as Derek pushes his fingers in and out. Stiles’ hands meander over Derek’s face and chest, pausing to tease pert nipples, or trace the line of a collarbone, or just cup the curve of a deltoid. They never slip lower than Derek’s waist except to touch the back of Derek’s hand, and then only briefly, a short press before trailing back up the length of Derek’s arm.

Stiles wedges an arm under Derek’s shoulders, cradling him like something off the cover of a romance novel, and Derek curls into him, following his mouth for more kisses as he rocks into his fingers. He brings his knees up higher and reaches deeper, massaging his prostate.

Stiles kisses him deeply, licking into his mouth even when he gets distracted by the rising pleasure and catching Derek’s moans between his teeth.

Derek swipes the palm of his other hand between his cheeks and over the taint, slicking it with lube before he takes his cock in hand. Stiles licks the resulting hiss right off his teeth and pulls Derek closer with the arm around his shoulders as he strokes himself. 

The kisses are still languid for all that Derek’s hand is moving fast and firm over his cock, and when Derek comes, Stiles’ tongue slides slow like molasses over Derek’s, his mouth open to swallow Derek’s cry whole.

Stiles pets Derek through his orgasm, smoothing away the tremors with his hands and lips.

When Derek’s body has finally relaxed into the afterglow he says, “Welcome home,” and Stiles kisses the tip of his nose, smiling incandescently.


	40. Derek Screwed pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I have this pet spider, and I catch other spiders to feed to it, and sometimes when it’s not hungry, it just ties them up and leaves them hanging until it’s feeling peckish. Ergo, werespider!Stiles and beta!Derek. So if you’re deathly afraid of spiders, you might wanna skip on by this one.

"Don’t go beyond the southwestern boundary line," Derek’s mother always says. Derek repeats the mantra to himself now as he tries to claw at the sticky cords of the massive cobweb he’d landed in when the forest floor had abruptly fallen out from under him. There’s a weird residue on them though, and it sticks in chunks to his fingers like clay, blunting the sharp edges of his claws. Derek paws at the tangled web a few times and gives up, sagging into the sticky hammock.

"HELLO!" He shouts up at the sky. "CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?" Because the hole is wide but shallow, maybe only ten or twelve feet deep, and the southwestern boundary line borders a chunk of suburb, for Luna’s sake. The nearest house, the  _Sheriff’s_  house, in fact, is barely a hundred yards away. 

Derek doesn’t know what a werespider's trap is doing this close to human habitation, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He breathes in deep and howls from the diaphragm, not from the chest, just like his mom taught him.

There’s a rush of wings flapping as all the nearby birds take off. The forest goes silent. Derek strains his hearing in the direction of the Sheriff’s house. It’s too far away for him to hear if anyone’s moving around inside, but he can just make out the shrill ring of a telephone. It cuts off after a ring and a half, which gives Derek a little hope.

Derek waits, listening hopefully, but unless the person who picked up the phone is particularly stealthy, they stay inside, leaving Derek hanging. Literally.

He squirms, trying to pull his way free of the mass of webbing, but only manages to tangle himself further.

"Dammit!" he shouts up at the distant sky. A few of the returning birds chirp down at him.

A while passes. With his watch arm trapped at an odd angle, Derek has to track time by the passage of the sun, which he’s never been very good at, but he waits patiently for maybe half an hour. The quiet and inactivity eventually make him drowsy and, by degrees, he loses the fight against sleep.

&&&

"Dude. Dude, wake up."

Derek grunts. He tries to pull his blankets up over his head, but he’s gotten all tangled up in them.

"Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty. I  _will_  kiss you. And I promise you won’t like it.”

Derek grudgingly opens his eyes to see a massive werespider peering at him point blank with eight large round eyes set in a white-furred, mandibled face. He’ll spend the rest of his life denying that he shrieks bloody murder at the sight.

Derek instinctively starts struggling, fur exploding out of his face as he wolfs out in sheer panic, and he howls desperately for his pack in the face of a superior predator. The werespider blessedly backs away and watches him from a slightly less pants-wettingly terrifying proximity. By the time Derek has calmed down, it's lounging on its back, weaving a complex cat’s cradle involving multiple threads of spider silk and five of its limbs. 

"Are you going to kill me?" Derek asks, trying for calm and failing utterly.

"Nah," the spider says, lazily waving an unoccupied limb longer than Derek is tall. "I’ve got an in with the Sheriff, but not one that’ll let me get away with first degree murder. Though maybe I could squeak by on the fact that you’re trespassing."

"I was patrolling the edge of the Hale territory."

"Dude." The were!spider looks away from its cat’s cradle to pin Derek with a distinctly unimpressed look. "Do not even. I know your mom told you not to come out this far. I know because your mom  _told me_  when she called my house to apologize.”

"Let me go. They’ll be missing me by now," Derek tries. He may not be thrashing around anymore, but his instincts are still screaming at him to run away from an unbeatable threat.

The spider laughs, which looks distinctly weird considering the whole mandible thing. “Naw. When you howled I got up to help you out, but your mom called before I could and told me to let you stew in your own terrible decisions for a while. Though she probably didn’t expect you to take a nap. A+ survival instincts there, buddy.”

Derek scowls, but he can feel his face heating up. “I was up late studying for an exam, okay,” Derek grouses.

"Yeah?" the werespider asks, turning over and pulling itself closer. It hooks its claws into the thick string binding Derek and begins cutting and unraveling. "What subject?"

"The CPA exam."

The werespider pauses in its work. It doesn’t blink in surprise, but only because it doesn’t have eyelids. “You’re an accountant?”

Derek huffs and rolls his eyes. He gets that reaction a lot. “So what?”

"Oh," it says, and focuses its attention back on the mess of web Derek’s tangled in. Its many legs are making quick work of it. "No, that’s cool. You just look like—. Crap, you must get this from everyone."

Derek shrugs, now that he has enough freedom to actually move his shoulders. He is used to people assuming he’s a model, but it’s sort of novel for someone to notice.

The werespider peels away the last few threads binding Derek and lifts him up onto its back like he weighs no more than a pillow. Strangely, Derek’s instincts barely register the show of strength as a threat. He grips the wiry white hairs as they climb out of the hole and lets himself be lifted back down to the ground. 

The werespider steps back and sort of... folds into itself in a way that makes Derek’s eyes cross, a creature big enough to easily catch a horse somehow collapsing in on itself until it settles into the shape of a guy Derek’s height, with pale skin and broad shoulders and a tapering waist and  _crap he’s naked._  Derek averts his eyes and politely strips off his jacket, holding it out to the guy, who laughs and grabs a pair of boxers draped over a tree branch before taking Derek’s jacket.

It fits snugly around the guy's shoulders in such a way that makes Derek’s jeans fit a little snugly in the crotch.

"I’m Stiles," the werespider says. "Stiles Stilinski."

 _I’m screwed,_  Derek thinks.  _Royally screwed._

He says, “I’m Derek. Derek screwed,” and then claps his hands over his blushing face as Stiles bursts out laughing.


	41. Welcome to Beacon Hills pt 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [lielabell](http://lielabell.tumblr.com/) requested: WtNV/TW Stiles getting his hair cut. 

Readers, I’ve been seeing your posts on Twitter about Deputy Stilinski getting his hair cut, so I decided to do a little investigating of my own, and readers, I am  _appalled_. The Deputy’s hair wasn’t cut so much as  _shorn_ , clipped from his beautiful skull with no more care to appearance than a sheep farmer might pay to his shorn sheep. All that cute brown scruff, the perfect length to run one’s fingers through, gone! Who is responsible for this? Who inflicted this terrible and unrefined hairstyle upon our dear Deputy? 

Readers, I’ve just received a text from Vernon Boyd, (you know, the third?), and he says that Deputy Stilinski did it himself on his lunch break after his presentation at the local elementary school. Apparently one of the kids had the audacity to put gum in the Deputy’s hair! I hope that child is grounded and subject to thorough academic discipline. That is  _not_  how a proper citizen of Beacon Hills treats their law enforcement officers.

On the other hand, after some observation of our Deputy and his new hairstyle, I must admit that the new cut brings a kind of boyish youth to his features. And so low-maintenance. Readers, I think I’m a little bit jealous of our dear Deputy’s new hairstyle. Do you think he’d cut my hair, too?

No, the Deputy is probably far too busy with important police work to waste his time giving out haircuts. 

Oh well, Beacon Hills. This has been a report.

&&&

_Omg Alli that hot creepy Hale is glaring at me again_

_another stalker to add to your collection. and aren’t you supposed to be too busy doing important police work to text me?_

_One stalker is not a collection_

_two stalkers is._

_I have a collection of stalkers now_

_congratulations!_

&&&

(“So many stalkers,” Stiles brags. “ _So many stalkers_.”

His dad drops his forehead into his hand in response.)


	42. Both. Both is good.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [lielabell](http://tmblr.co/mUqvKHxbPU9yconKAEc-N8A) prompted: Derek getting his nipples played with? Or double penetration? OR STILES AND DEREK AND A DOUBLE SIDED DILDO.

Stiles slides home on a sigh, his balls tucked up against Derek’s taint. Derek, meanwhile, stretches like a cat, rubbing his pierced nipples against the mattress as best he can with his hands tied to the headboard. Stiles reaches under him to flick one of the titanium rings and the muscles in Derek’s sides twitch. Maybe he should get a chain to string between them, something pretty and decorative to emphasize the breadth of Derek’s chest and also so Stiles can lead him around by his sensitive nipples.

Derek’s hips rock back against him and Stiles stills them with a touch. Squeezing more lube onto his fingers, he reaches down to knead Derek’s rim, testing the edge until a single finger slips in alongside his cock. Derek breathes out sharply through his nose and bears down, accepting the intrusion.

Stiles works his finger progressively deeper until he’s fucking it in and out alongside his stationary cock. He slides his finger around until it’s under his cock and homes in on Derek’s prostate with his fingertip. Some judicious rubbing earns Stiles a choked whimper and a little more give in Derek’s rim, and Stiles slides a second finger in alongside his cock and the first.

Derek hisses at the stretch when Stiles hooks his fingers on Derek’s rim and gently pulls down, but doesn’t fight the third finger. Stiles takes some time working them in and out until it feels less like he’s got his dick and three fingers caught in a finger trap before slowly bunching his fingers together, simulating something thicker.

Derek does twitch away at that, and Stiles goes back to holding his three fingers flat, scissoring them until Derek relaxes and loosens. The bunched fingers go in easier, and Stiles rubs the small of Derek’s back, hand slipping in the sweat gathered on Derek’s skin as he works them in and out alongside his cock.

With his other hand, he shakily squeezes lube onto one end of the double dildo lying on the bed next to him, smearing it roughly over the soft, flexible toy. Then, with one hand holding Derek open, he works the tip in.

The toy’s material compresses, but it’s wider around than Stiles’ fingers were, and the tightness of Derek’s rim around Stiles’ cock feels like a garotte. He hisses and thumbs at Derek’s hole, trying to find some give before his dick pops off.

Derek is perfectly still beneath him, his knuckes white around the bars of the headboard.

Stiles kneads Derek’s back and sides, palming down over the sweat-slippery skin to tease the stiff nubs of Derek’s nipples. By degrees, the punishing tightness eases. He works the dildo in one inch at a time, dribbling lube everywhere, and Derek starts breathing out fragile little “ _oh, oh_ "s as he adjusts.

Derek’s hole looks obscene, stretched around Stiles’ cock and the dildo, red and taut like a rubber band at full extension. Like if Stiles stuck a single finger in alongside, it’d snap. Stiles leans down carefully to press kisses onto Derek’s back and slides a hand around to fondle Derek’s cock, gone soft with pain. He toys with the foreskin and just listens, focusing on the cadence of Derek’s breathing.

It takes a long time for the tension to leak out of Derek’s body, relaxing the rigid line of his back into a softer curve. Derek’s chest sinks onto the mattress and his body opens.

He’s gorgeous to watch from this angle, the deceptive width of his hips narrowing to a delicate waist and then building up to the breadth of his shoulders, the blades bunched toward the spine from his extended arms. The nape of his neck is especially beautiful, bared and vulnerable.

Stiles finally starts working his hips into a slow rhythm, thrusting the dildo in counterpoint, in-out, out-in, and Derek’s rib cage contracts as he sighs out a breathy moan. His hands flex on the bars, forearms rippling and cording. Stiles reminds himself to go on Wikipedia and memorize the muscles so that next time, he can think their names as they flex and relax.

When his cock and the dildo are moving smoothly, he thrusts them in tandem, both in, both out. Derek cries out as he writhes; his torso bows toward the mattress, then arches up and back against the combined intrusion, pushing greedily back for more. The long stretch of his back and arms resembles some kind of abstractly-worded poetry. Stiles pulls back and watches Derek try to follow, the restraints that bind him to the headboard squeezing the heels of his palms.

The double dildo is long, eighteen inches from end to end, and when Stiles slides the other end between his legs, it buts up against his own hole with a few inches to spare. He slicks his fingers and gives himself a cursory stretching before forcing the end in. Naturally, it burns, too big and too dry, but the pain is a good distraction from the heat and pressure of Derek’s ass. 

Stiles gives a few experimental thrusts, adjusting the angle of the toy in his ass so that it’s braced against the wall of his colon instead of curving up and in. Too bad he didn’t think ahead and buy a strap-on.

When he’s reasonably sure the dildo won’t slide right out of Derek’s ass and into his own, he starts thrusting in earnest, resting his hands on Derek’s hips and watching the way the slap of his hips against Derek’s ass cheeks makes the muscle bounce and jiggle. Derek meets him stroke for stroke, pulling on his restraints as he tries to get the two cocks deeper.

The sounds he makes, a litany of choked “ _oh_ "s and " _yes_ "s is interspersed with hitching moans that edge higher in pitch until Derek is whining and whimpering beneath Stiles, his heavy cock swaying beneath him like a pendulum keeping the rhythm of their fucking. Stiles doesn’t touch it. He goes after Derek’s nipples instead, draping his weight over Derek’s back and reaching under to pluck and rub the sensitive nubs. He toys with the rings, turning them and tugging gently, and Derek warbles like a bird under his hands. 

Stiles straightens up and slams his cocks in to the hilt, then keeps pushing, forcing Derek further up the bed so he can get his elbows under him. It makes his shoulders look even broader, his waist dainty by comparison. Stiles puts his hands in that dip and lays into Derek, fucking him fast and brutal.

Derek flattens his chest against the bed, as best he can while still up on his knees, and keens, gripping the headboard like he’ll fall off the earth if he lets go. His spine is one long slope, and Stiles watches through hooded eyes as a drop of sweat slips down it. It pools in the center of his back and Stiles darts down to taste it, licking up wet salt and Derek.

He can feel himself getting close, can feel orgasm rushing to meet him, but he holds back as best he can, biting his tongue, thinking about cold things, thinking about Allison’s psychopathic relatives, thinking about fire. He slumps down onto Derek and sets his teeth into a ridge of muscle. When he bites down, Derek jolts with a strangled shout. He moves his mouth and bites down harder, and Derek freezes, clenches, and comes, sobbing with the intensity.

Stiles ruts twice into the almost painful clutch of Derek’s ass and follows him over into white oblivion. 


	43. Emergency measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [curlyfryking](http://curlyfryking.tumblr.com/) prompted: An alpha heals faster when he’s having sex and stiles is very willing to help Derek heal faster.

"Take your clothes off," Stiles snaps as he shoves his jeans and boxers to the ground. He forgot to take off his shoes beforehand, so he has to bend down and untie them before staggering out of the whole mess. Derek is staring wide-eyed, sitting on the bed with his thighs pressed tight together and his hands clutching his shirt to his chest. Stiles advances toward the bed, dick chubbing up between his thighs, and Derek shrinks backward.

"Jesus christ, Stiles," Derek cries, "It was a hairline fracture!"

With tender hands, Stiles lifts Derek’s right leg, supporting the knee and ankle. He brushes his lips over where the fracture was, about halfway down the shin bone, before Derek’s werewolf healing fixed it right up, then trails butterfly kisses down to the ankle and along the instep to take the big toe into his mouth. He gives it a thorough tongue bath and watches Derek’s eyes darken and the grip on his shirt relax.

"Better safe than sorry," he says huskily, his lips moving against the thick pad of the toe. "I’d hate for anyone to think I didn’t take care of my werewolf."

Derek’s foot twitches and trembles and he throws the shirt aside in favor of reaching for Stiles.


	44. Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [torches4all](http://torches4all.tumblr.com/) asked for: Derek just really wants Stiles to get aggressive and fuck him on the kitchen table or something, but Stiles is still too insecure to think Derek would want that so he always controls himself. So Derek tries everything he can think of to tempt him, but it takes a few attempts until Stiles’s self-control finally snaps. Bonus Points if this includes jealous!Stiles and a little exhibition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Non-negotiated D/s

Stiles watches Derek putter through Stiles’ brand new actual grown-up apartment, shuffling the stuff that they’d just put wherever was convenient while they were unpacking Stiles’ moving boxes, and realizes that he’s seen Derek bend over more times in the last month since they started having sex than in the years they’ve known each other. Literally, it seems like every time Stiles glances at Derek, the guy’s bent over with his ass sticking out and pointing straight at Stiles. At first, he’d thought it was a Baader-Meinhof phenomenon triggered by them finally escalating their whatever-the-hell relationship to sex, Stiles finally noticing Derek’s fine ass waving around in his face while he wasn’t before. But after about two weeks of increasingly displayed buttocks, he’d charted the data, interrogated their mutual friends, made up a whole spreadsheet and series of graphs and, holy god, Derek actually did start showing off his ass to Stiles just a little before they tumbled into the sack together.

In fact, he’s doing it again, leaning over the kitchen island to put a pair of scissors into one of the drawers on the other side _as one does_. Except obviously he can’t quite reach, so he lifts himself fully onto the island and yep, there it is, Derek sprawled belly-down on the kitchen island, his ass jutting out all impudent and jutt-y, his toes dangling just above the floor. 

Stiles makes outraged claw-hands at the tableau. His knuckles pop with the vehemence of his WTF-ness because Stiles  _knows_ , okay, he  _knows_  that Derek’s ass is damn fuckin' fine and there’s really no need for Derek to show it off all the freaking time. Especially when they’ve already had sex twice since waking up  _five hours ago_. Stiles’ dick does not  _actually_ run on Energizer batteries, no matter what jokes Isaac likes to make, the asshole.

Stiles turns away from the display to sublimate his frustration into rearranging stuff. He completely misses the equally frustrated look Derek shoots him over his shoulder.

Blessedly, Derek never shows off his ass when they’ve got company, except for those few instances where it genuinely is coincidental. And if Stiles hadn’t just had the whole pack plus related persons over just yesterday helping him move his crap from his dad’s house and garage to his new place, he’d invite them over again today.

But no, it’s just him and Derek and Derek’s Butt, which, again, is aimed in his direction. Stiles glances out it and wonders what would happen if he just kinda…reached out and…slapped it. Like, ka- _smack_.

He focuses back on the bookshelves. Derek would probably disembowel him. Through his nostrils. Messily.

Derek and his ass leave mid-afternoon, and then the next day Stiles has work and comes home to see that Derek has invited himself over, his ass swaying side-to-side like a pendulum as he shifts his weight from leg to leg while ordering delivery.

It’s simultaneously hypnotic and frustrating. Stiles feels the overwhelming urge to put his hands on Derek’s hips and still them by force. He wants it so bad that he can see himself doing it, stepping up behind Derek and hooking his fingers into Derek’s belt loops, stopping that teasing sway and dragging him back to meet Stiles’ groin, grinding into the crease of his ass…

Stiles shakes himself out of it and goes back to doing, well, whatever it was he was doing before he got hypnotized by Derek’s butt. Fantasies are all well and good, but Derek would probably claw Stiles’ head off his shoulders before letting him fuck him.

But then again… Nah. Derek wouldn’t—or would he? Probably not, right? 

That night, Stiles pins Derek down and rides him hard, but that niggling thought lingers through the sex and the afterglow and well into the next morning.  _What if?_ , he thinks, W _hat if?_

Derek’s got a few days of late shifts, so Stiles doesn’t really see him until Friday night, when Derek lets himself in with the key Stiles is pretty sure he stole. He basically tumbles them straight into bed, which is nice, because Stiles likes sex, especially sex with Derek, and has missed it in the few days that Derek’s been off living his own life. Stiles immediately recoils from that thought because him and Derek, they’re not  _dating_ , per se. They just harass each other and sometimes crash at each others’ places and generally have a lot of sex. They don't  _miss_ each other, especially not Derek.

The next morning, Stiles gets an eyeful of butt-crack as Derek picks up their clothes, and okay, Stiles can be obtuse, even deliberately so sometimes, but he’s not actually stupid. Derek is trying to do something, or make Stiles do something, and while he’s usually not shy about bossing Stiles around, for some reason, this time, he’s choosing not to use his freaking  _words_. And if what Stiles suspects is true, if Derek really is open to catching,  _wants_  to catch, then Stiles absolutely needs to hear it in words. Because Stiles is insecure and Derek is Derek and this relationship is not actually a particularly healthy relationship and before Derek started putting his ass out there all the time, Stiles had literally never thought about the possibility of getting his dick in there.

Stiles looks away from Derek’s ass and buries his face in his pillow with an irritated grunt.

He hears Derek sigh. Except it’s not even a sigh, it’s just this resigned little exhale through his nose, the one Stiles still vividly remembers from the days when they started getting invested enough in each other that Derek could be genuinely disappointed in Stiles and Stiles would actually care. 

Well, he sure as shit cares now. He pops upright and snaps, “Okay, what the  _hell_  is that about?”

"What the hell is  _what_  about, Stiles?” Derek asks. His tone is flat, but Stiles can hear the thread of disappointment as clear as fucking day.

"Don’t ‘what’ me, asshole. You’re disappointed and I want to know why."

Derek sighs again. “You didn’t do anything.”

Stiles grits his teeth. “Bullshit. I did something.”

And then Derek has the temerity to fucking  _roll his eyes_. “It’s fine. I get it. You’re not interested.”

"Interested in what?" Stiles asks sharply.

Derek huffs in frustration and says, “In my  _ass_.”

And that’s just a load of poppycock. Stiles is deeply invested in Derek’s ass. He says as much to Derek.

Apparently, that’s the last straw, because Derek throws the clothes he’d picked up back onto the floor and snarls, “Not deeply invested enough to  _fuck_  it.”

Stiles blinks.

"Oh my god," he says. "You actually  _do_  want to catch!”

"Of fucking course I want to catch," Derek shouts. "You’re the one who doesn’t want to pitch!"

"Well you should’ve fucking said something, asshole!" Stiles shouts back.

Derek is red in the face and throat, the cords in his neck standing out as he yells, “That would’ve defeated the fucking purpose! I just wanted you to walk over and make me  _take it!_ ”

Stiles reels back, mouth sagging open in shock. “You. You wanted me to make you take it?”

Derek’s nostrils flare. He curls in on himself, hands coming forward like he wants to cover his nudity.

"You want me to make you take it," Stiles repeats. "You want me to  _make_  you take it.”

He slides off the bed and stalks intently toward Derek, who’s doing his best to make like a pill bug while remaining vertical. He takes a step back when Stiles pushes right into his personal space, then another and another as Stiles just keeps going, walking Derek backward until Derek’s back thumps against the bedroom wall.

Stiles braces his hands over Derek’s shoulders and uses every last millimeter of his height to loom. Derek curls into himself like a wilting violet, giving Stiles an extra inch to look down from.

He leans in until he can feel Derek’s rapid breathing against his face. “You. Want me. To make you  _take it,_ " he says darkly.

Derek, eyes low and turned away, nods. The flush in his face has spread down to his chest and his untouched cock is already fully hard. He looks ashamed of himself for wanting it, and somehow very small. Stiles realizes he’s going to have to have a thorough discussion with Derek about sex and kinks and kink negotiation if their something-resembling-a-relationship is going to continue.

He pulls back, and there’s a brief flash of disappointment on Derek’s face before Stiles slides his hand into Derek’s hair and  _grips_. Derek’s eyelids flutter and his body follows Stiles’ hold as he pulls away from the wall, sweet and easy like Derek never usually is. He drags Derek back over to the bed by the hair, and when Derek’s knees hit the side, he cups the back of his head in one hand and pushes it down, shoving his face into the mess of sheets.

Derek grunts and braces his weight on the bed, but stays bent over, his knees locked and ass high in the air. Stiles slips a finger between his asscheeks and feels the warm knot of muscle purse against the pad of his finger.

The lube is still out from last night, but Stiles ignores it for now, slipping the tip of his finger in dry. Derek gasps but rocks back into it, sliding down to the second knuckle. Stiles pushes his finger in the rest of the way and Derek jerks like he’s been stung.

He doesn’t seem to be in pain though, if the way he’s wiggling his hips is any indication, so Stiles fucks his finger in and out of him, poking around for his prostate. It’s hard to get it under his finger, not because it’s particularly hard to find, but because Derek won’t stop  _squirming_.

Stiles slaps Derek’s asscheek with his other hand and says, “Hold still,” and just like that, Derek goes stone still.

Stiles stares. This isn’t just Derek wanting to catch. This is Derek wanting to  _sub. Badly._  How the hell did he not pick up on this at all? Seriously, who the hell misses a subby streak  _this_  wide? (Well, aside from Stiles.)

He slicks up his fingers before shoving two in. Derek’s hole is tight, but only briefly, relaxing easily. Stiles presses in a third. Same. When he goes for four, the tightness lingers for a few thrusts before easing.

Stiles feels the hot edge of jealousy cut into his gut. He works Derek’s hole hard, wondering who else has been getting in there to make his ass so loose.

Derek takes the rough handling and turns his ass up for more, his knees shaking under him. He keeps making these huffing noises, his shoulders tight and knuckles pale where he’s gripping the sheets. Stiles reaches under him and discovers that his cock is harder than Stiles has ever felt it. He swipes a finger over the slit to check for pre-come, and just like that, Derek comes, shuddering and grunting and spewing thick jizz all over Stiles’ fingers.

Holy god.  _Holy god_.

Stiles finger fucks him through it with almost clinically detached interest, and then keeps finger fucking him past it, to the point where Derek’s knees literally go out from under him and he collapses against the side of the bed, Stiles’ fingers slipping free. He immediately tries to get back up again, pulling at the fitted sheet with trembling hands, but he can’t quite make it back up, like all his strength has been drained away.

Stiles’ nostrils flare. He ruthlessly squeezes the base of his dick, strangling the oncoming orgasm. When he feels safe that he’s not going to blow his load at the slightest touch, he reaches down and grabs Derek by the hips. Energized by pure lust, he hauls him up and shoves him face-first onto the bed, climbing between the splayed legs that stick out over the edge past the knee.

Derek presses his face into the covers and braces himself as Stiles slides on a condom and slicks up his cock. He presses the tip against Derek’s hole, feeling it purse and twitch, and pushes in, bottoming out on one stroke.

Derek arches up off the bed, curling into himself. He makes this high-pitched sound, a nasal whimper, that Stiles has never heard before in all the years they’ve known each other, and Stiles is suddenly and deeply grateful that the condom is blocking out some of the sensation, because if he’d gone in bare, the feel of Derek around him and that one noise would’ve been more than enough to send him pirouetting over the edge into orgasm.

As such, Stiles has a sliver of stamina left. He takes deep breaths, thinks of cold things, of Gerard Argent and the way he’d become a human fountain of putrid black vomit, of Jennifer’s Darach face, of Jennifer’s human face and her girl bits all over Derek… His fingers grip Derek’s hips, pinning them to the bed with the force of his weight, and he slams his cock into the wet, welcoming hole.

Derek makes a choked noise and scrambles for something to brace himself against as Stiles pounds into him. Stiles watches, grimly smug. Bet  _she_  never saw him like this, all flushed and desperate. Bet  _she_  never got him to make that pleading moan. Bet Derek never stuffed the sheets in his mouth for  _her_.

Derek goes to worm a hand under him and Stiles yanks it away, slamming it down onto the bed up near his shoulder. Derek yips like a puppy and Stiles has the fleeting thought of putting a collar on him.

"On your knees," he growls, and pulls at Derek until his hips are up off the mattress. His cock swings fat and heavy beneath him, Stiles’ fingers discover, already primed for a second orgasm. "You’ll take what I give you and be  _glad_ for it.”

"Yes, sir," Derek whimpers.

Stiles has a moment of feeling like an asshole, doing this without having discussed it all first. But Derek wants this  _so bad_ , and Stiles wants so bad to give it to him, and Derek looks and feels so good, begging and desperate for his cock, that for now, Stiles just can’t care that much.

He fucks Derek like he’s trying to force his dick up into Derek’s throat, and Derek, Derek meets him thrust for thrust, like that’s exactly what he wants, too. And god, that’s hot, that’s mind-blowingly hot, so hot that Stiles just has to get closer and feel the heat of Derek with his mouth. He drops his hands from Derek’s hips onto the bed, hunching down over his back, and presses his face into the valley of Derek’s bowed spine.

His back feels feverish, even against Stiles’ flushed face, and he smells like salty sweat and that indefinable Derek-musk, the one that Stiles sometimes buries his face into his bed linens to find.

In the privacy of his mind, he admits to himself that he wants that smell in his sheets always. He wants a dented pillow next to his, strewn with short black hairs and smelling of musk and shampoo. A dip in the mattress parallel to his own, unique to one body. A nightstand, cluttered with books and chargers for someone else’s electronics.

Stiles bites back a sob and slams home one last time, coming so hard he almost chokes on his own tongue. 

He feels raw when he surfaces, like the fresh new skin that grows into a bad abrasion. Gripping the condom, he pulls out and ties it off, dropping it negligently over the side of the bed.

Derek doesn’t move an inch. He’s still hard, panting and sweating and waiting for Stiles’ next command, but Stiles just eases him over onto his side, then onto his back.

Stiles doesn’t know what his face is showing, but it makes Derek’s eyes widen. 

He curls up on the bed, draped over Derek’s thighs, and makes love to Derek’s cock with his mouth and hands until he shudders and spills into Stiles’ mouth, crying out like the sound is ripped from his throat.

They settle into the afterglow, and when Stiles tentatively folds their fingers together, Derek grips him back, hand trembling but sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi derek's butt is so loose because when he's not with stiles, he's fingering himself or fucking himself with a dildo imagining that it's stiles doing it to him instead of himself, so there's nobody else. though it's a while before he admits it because stiles is a goddamn _machine_ when he's jealous.


	45. Ridiculous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just think that Derek would be the kind of guy who doesn't stop pining even though he's already got what he's been pining for. Also, who says that pining always has to be yearn-y and painful?

Sometime during Stiles’ sophomore year of high school, a few weeks after Scott got bit, he pulls out a sheet of binder paper, and between rounds of Six Degrees of Hitler, writes words that describe Derek Hale. ‘Creeper’ is the first one, and the second one, and the third, too, because Stiles feels it deserves the emphasis. In fact, ‘creeper’ becomes the third-most common word on the list, followed by ‘ridiculously good-looking’ and ‘scowly’.

The list gets longer over the years, gains variation as Stiles gets to know him better and Derek becomes a real boy. ‘Guilty’, Stiles writes. ‘Afraid’. ‘Regretful’.

'Wry', Stiles adds one day during senior year. 'In possession of an actual sense of humor'. 'Nice eyes'.

The pack gets together for a graduation party, the Sheriff turning a blind eye to the booze, and the next morning Stiles wakes up hungover with ‘nice smile :)’ added to the list.

Somehow, Stiles ends up spending most of his pre-college summer with Derek. The list gains a whole page, front and back, in those three months. ‘Funny’. ‘Quiet’. ‘Thoughtful’. ‘Creeper’. ‘Well-read’. ‘Quirky’.

'Warm'. 'Nice smile'. 'Generous'. 'Caring'. 'Loyal'.

'Creeper', he writes to balance out the sap. And then, tentatively, 'Pining'.

He crosses it out, scribbles over it so it can’t be used against him in a court of law.

He leaves the list at home when he goes to college, but a month in, after Derek consistently calls him every Saturday afternoon, he starts a new one. He puts ‘creeper’ first for old time’s sake, and when he writes ‘pining’ next, he leaves it.

Their love story, or at least their getting-together story, unfolds like a romcom in slow motion, complete with annoying friends, misunderstandings, late-night phone calls, and pizza. And pining. Lots of pining. Enough pining that, by the time Stiles gives in and pops the question, he can recognize Derek’s pining-face from thirty yards.

'Such a piner', Stiles adds to his multi-page list. His engagement ring clacks against the desk as he holds the paper down. 'Pines like a mofo'. 'Pines like it's going out of style'. 'Pines with the force of the Canadian wilderness'. And 'creeper', because that still hasn't stopped being true.

The first word Stiles adds to the list after their wedding is ‘ridiculous’. Because Derek  _is_. Ridiculous, that is. He’s 1000% ridiculous, ingredients include: ridiculousness, pining, and creeperness.

He’s so ridiculous that Stiles takes to just covering his ridiculous face with whatever is handy: towel, magazine, his own hands, his  _dad_ 's hands, on one particularly ridiculous occasion. He's just so  _ridiculous_.

Because he’ll sit there, on their couch, in their house, Stiles’ engagement and wedding rings on his finger, Stiles’ feet on his lap, and he’ll  _pine_  at Stiles from three feet away. Or Stiles will wake up and Derek’s face will be on the pillow next to his, turned toward Stiles and (creepily) watching Stiles sleep and he’ll be  _pining._ So obviously Stiles has no choice but to lift his feet off Derek’s lap to shove them in his face, or to squirm over and drop his whole chest onto Derek’s head, smothering his ridiculous pining face under the giddy thump of his heart as Derek struggles half-heartedly, (because Derek  _likes_ it, he fucking  _loves_  it, the ridiculous creeper), and Stiles will cradle Derek’s ridiculous pining head to his bosom and bitch about how ridiculous Derek is and ask what he did in his past lives to deserve someone so ridiculous and squish Derek’s cheeks while calling him his 'ridiculously good-looking ridiculous piner,  _oh my god squeeee'_.

And then Derek will smile his ridiculous smile, so even though ‘ridiculous’ becomes the most common word on the list, Stiles has to write ‘nice smile’ after it most of the time, so it becomes the second-most common word. (And then he writes ‘creeper’  _because it’s still true, oh my god, don’t you dare deny it, you ridiculous creeper_.)


	46. Better Homes and Gardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, if Derek's not around to use the loft, Stiles might as well take advantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some hand-wavey timeline stuff going on in this one, especially as to where it fits into canon. Apologies in advance.

There’s no bloodstain in the concrete where Boyd died. There’s a big one where Derek was shish kebab’d on a rusty pipe for a while, and a constellation of splotches where Kali was shish kebab’d with a lot of big shards of glass, but nothing to mark where Boyd died. All his blood left with the water, when they finally pumped it out.

There’s bloodstains on the bedsheets. Faint, mostly washed out, but there. Stiles throws them out and buys a whole new set, splurging on the thousand thread count ones. He sleeps on them sometimes, when the thought of dark dreams keeps him up and when the afternoon light slants in and lights up the whole loft in soft gold hues.

Out of boredom, he washes the windows. Gets a ladder and one of those squeegee mops and scrubs away years of grime from the inside. For the outside, he fills up a supersoaker with soapy water and shoots down at the panes from the roof. While the soapy water is streaking down, he hooks up a long-ass hose to the indoor faucet, runs it up the stairs and out onto the roof, and uses his thumb to amplify the pressure and wash the soap away.

The light that slants in during the afternoons is a lot brighter after that. But instead of deterring him, it makes him even more desperate for the light. He replaces the broken skylight with some frosted panes he finds stacked in a shadowy corner. They look new, like they were bought not too long ago.

Stiles washes the new skylight inside and out, then has to go back and patch it some more when it leaks.

The loft is glaringly bright during the day. Stiles loves it. He brings his low-slung chair to the loft and sets it in front of the windows, basking in the afternoon light like a cat.

It doesn’t stop the dreams of confining darkness Stiles has when he falls asleep at night, but the dreamless naps in the afternoon keep him a few steps ahead of long-term sleep deprivation.

One of Beacon Hills’ plant nurseries is going out of business, and on a whim, Stiles buys up some of their hardier plants. He tells the owner that he’s making a rooftop garden for a friend whose younger siblings recently died, and the man gives Stiles a hefty discount on dirt and tools and pots. Stiles tries to absorb all the instructions and advice the guy throws at him, but after about half an hour of listening non-stop, he throws in the towel and invites the guy over and they set up the garden together. It’s a pain and a half to haul everything up the spiral staircase, but when it’s all put together, the plants forming a leafy perimeter around the edge of the roof, Stiles and the nursery's owner decide that it was worth it.

The first thing Stiles does after that is tear out the stupid intruder alarm thing. It'd gone off when the nursery owner had opened the doors to the service elevator, startling them both and sending Stiles into a flurry of embarassed apologies on behalf of his friend's rampant paranoia.

A full moon goes by, the first since the eclipse, and Stiles wonders who’s paying the bills, since the utilities still work and no landlords have come knocking asking for rent.

Winter arrives in full force, so Stiles buys a few cheap rugs to put something between his feet and the icy concrete floor, arranging them around the bed and the sitting area. He spends a lot of time talking to the nursery owner and checking the plants for damage. His patch-job on the skylight starts leaking again.

He’s not sleeping as well, now that the nights are longer and the afternoons are too overcast for him to get his daily dose of sunbathing, so he brings his dad in on the project, and over one mercifully dry week, they replace the whole skylight with the stack of new panes, building a whole new frame and caulking the living hell out of it. It doesn’t leak after that.

Stiles’ dad brings the department’s powerwasher and they get the bloodstains out. It leaves the concrete cleaner in those places than everywhere else, but better too clean than bloody. Stiles’ dad also noses around the brick wall, which is so ridiculously against California building codes that it’s sort of amazing, but neither of them want to put the effort into taking it down, so they leave it.

Christmas season is the animal clinic’s best time for adoptions, but there’s these two strays, half-wild, mangy things that nobody seems to want, according to Scott and Isaac. The two of them make noises about convincing Melissa to adopt them, but Melissa is already trying to support two teenagers on a nurse’s salary with her ex-husband lurking around.

Stiles suggests pooling their cash for supplies and food and using Derek’s place, since Derek isn’t exactly around to care.

The first thing one of the dogs does is shit on one of Stiles’ rugs. Scott and Isaac immediately werewolf-growl the dog into submission, and the three of them decide to train the dogs to a litter box. With Scott’s alpha-mojo backing it up, the dogs take to the routine pretty quick, which is pretty convenient.

Stiles isn’t sure how he feels about what he’d come to think of as  _his_  space becoming a public space, now that Scott and Isaac and Allison are in and out all the time to help with the dogs. But the werewolves do help Stiles’ dad take the brick wall down and replace it with something that will actually survive an earthquake, so there’s that. Melissa starts visiting too, when she gets sick of dealing with the ex, and then she starts cooking there, because Scott and Isaac and Allison fucking  _love_  the dogs, even though they’re legally Stiles’, and tend to lose track of when they're supposed to be home for dinner. They end up redoing the whole kitchen, two werewolves and a hunter and a spark and their respective parents. And Lydia, who designs and decorates and hooks them up with suppliers and carpenters and plumbers. She even buys a set of high-end pots and pans to replace the Walmart-quality set, then a collection of actually-matching rugs to replace Stiles’ cheap thrift store ones. And then she makes them redo the bathroom, too.

The twins don’t ever come over, glancing at Stiles whenever the subject comes up. He’s been in a good mood lately, now that the bad dreams have abated, but not good enough to let them into the home of the guy whose life they helped ruin. (Peter only ever shows up the once. He stays away after his first and only visit, during which Stiles trapped him in a small circle of mountain ash, piled garden-grown wolfsbane and paper and chemical flammables around him, then fiddled with a lighter for ten thoughtful minutes.)

Allison and Stiles are lounging on the bed, companionably bitching about homework, when Derek and Cora walk in one day mid-March. Their faces are priceless as they look around at all the changes.

"Welcome home," Stiles calls. Derek’s eyes zero in on him, and like he can  _smell_  Stiles’ role in all this, he stomps over to start bitching.

"Yeah, missed you too, buddy," he says, and pulls his phone out in time to snap a picture of Derek’s face when the dogs plow into him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the closest I'll ever get to the pack mom!Stiles fic trope.


	47. Oral presentation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [reclininghorizontally](http://reclininghorizontally.tumblr.com/) prompted: The pack doesn’t know about Stiles/Derek and walks into Derek’s unannounced to hear what sounds like Derek masturbating upstairs. Everyone is really embarrassed and uncomfortable but Erica thinks Stiles, who isn’t with them, would love to hear this so she calls him. They hear his phone ring from Derek’s bedroom. Turns out Stiles is quiet during sex, but takes great pride and joy in making Derek make a racket.

"Oh,  _FUCK_ ,” Scott hears as he reaches for the door to Derek’s building. “Oh, oh fuck  _yesssss_.”

He barely reacts beyond a tired sigh. This doesn’t even rank in the top fifteen most gross things he’s overheard since his alpha hearing kicked in. In fact, a guy jerking it with a… a vibrator, (probably, if Scott is hearing the buzz right), is pretty tame. The fact that it’s Derek jerking it makes it a little grosser, but at least he has proof that the guy is getting  _some_  relief instead of keeping it all bottled up, because that just can’t be healthy.

"Yeah, yeah yeahyeahyeah _YEAH oh FUCK!”_

Scott slumps back to his bike and stuffs his helmet back on his head. It blocks out most of the sound, but the volume somehow keeps picking up anyway, and he seriously considers calling Allison or Isaac when a long, whining “ _OOOHHHHHHHH”_  gets in through the padding.

Stupid alpha hearing. Derek can have the fucking thing back if he wants it so bad. He glares at his phone and wishes that actually calling Isaac or Allison was an option. The last time he’d tried it, Allison had picked up Isaac’s phone and answered it in her breathy mid-sex voice. His hearing had already been acute enough to pick up on Isaac’s heavy breathing in the background.

"OHHH, FUCK YES FUCK FUCK YEAH RIGHT THERE OH FUCK  _RIGHT THERE RIGHT THERE OH MY GOD, FUCK!_ ”

Scott rips his helmet off and Derek’s voice is even  _louder_  without it, because he’s actually screaming. Derek Hale, screaming masturbator.

“ _YEAH, YEAH RIGHT THERE, FUCK, JUST LIKE THAT, OH FUCK OH FUCKKKKK!_ ”

Scott jogs away until the sound of traffic drowns out the sounds of Derek’s enthusiastic cries and mopes at his phone for a while. After a few half-hearted rounds of Plants Vs Zombies, he jogs back. It’s blessedly quiet, but Scott takes pains to make a racket on his way up. He starts smelling sex about halfway up, the heady, hot scent of sweat and jizz and pleasure, and immediately starts breathing through his mouth, stuffing his sleeve in when he realizes that he can  _taste_  the smell on his tongue.

The door and windows are all wide open when Scott gets to the landing, which helps dissipate the scent. It's not completely gone, but at least it's decently tolerable.

"Oh!"

Scott looks over at the couch to see Stiles slouched on the cushions. He looks a little flushed and sweaty, like he ran here or something. Which would make sense, since Scott didn’t see his Jeep out front. 

"Dude, you’re early," Stiles says.

Scott glances at his watch. He is, but by like, two minutes. He shrugs. “Did you just get here?”

"Nah," Stiles says, casually waving a hand. "I’ve been here for a while. Hanging out."

There’s no blip in his heartbeat, but Scott is starting to get a sneaking suspicion…

Derek strides out of the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed and hair still fluffy from being dried with a towel. He’s moving funny, all loose in the shoulders and swoopy in the hips, sort of like Allison after they’d—

"AW, NOOOO," Scott wails. He levels an accusing finger at Stiles. "YOU DIDN’T."

Stiles puts on his best trollface and holds up his two fists, thumbs up. “Bitch I might’ve done!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scott's just jealous that he's suddenly the one not getting any.


	48. That awkward moment when pt 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actual awkward teenager Derek Hale.

Derek sits down on his bed to stare at his phone, then hops back up to pace around his room some more.

"This is  _such_  a bad idea,” he mutters to himself. “He’s my boss’ boss’ boss’ boss’ boss. He’s so far above me in the food chain that even Peter answers to him. And he’s almost twenty years older than me.” _  
_

"Ugh," he grunts, throwing himself face-down onto his bed. "This is _such_  a bad idea. Laura will mock me forever.”

He rolls onto his side to peer at his phone. “But he  _left me his number_. That means he’s interested, right?” 

He flops over onto his back and stares up at the featureless ceiling. “But what if he gave me his number because he wants to apologize? What if it’s a pity number,” he moans, desolate. He scrubs his hands over his face. “What if it’s a pity number and he gave it to me so he can turn me down gently instead of firing me for hitting on him?”

"Oh my god," Derek gasps. "What if I get  _fired?_  What if I get  _him_  fired? What if I get us  _both_  fired?”

He scrambles upright. “Oh shit, what if Peter finds out? What if  _Mom_  finds out?” _  
_

"What if Laura murders you because it’s two in the morning on a work day and you won’t shut the fuck up so she can sleep!" Laura bellows through their shared wall, pounding her fist on it a few times.

Derek pouts in her general direction and bets that Stiles would be a much more considerate housemate. Then he smothers himself with his pillow for daring to imagine it.


	49. I can't be the only one with overwhelming feelings re: wet Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fanboy!Derek. _Because._

Derek loves being in fandom. He loves digging through fanfiction, trawling through tumblr, occasionally poking his all-but-dead livejournal account with a long stick. He’s not much of an author, but he has pirated DVD rips and Photoshop is his bitch. Not a day goes by that he isn’t putting together an artsy photomanip with heavily symbolic song lyrics or coming up with captions for an AU gifset.

But there’s loving fandom and then there’s  _Stiles Stilinski dripping wet_. And Derek just cannot deal with that. That is beyond his threshold of dealing with. There are no withs for Derek to deal, it is just that offensive. Even Derek’s dick stands up in outrage when confronted with it. Then Derek has to manually soothe it with his hand(s) until it spurts all that righteous anger out of its system.

Derek just hopes that, when he goes to Comic Con next month and actually has a chance to  _meet_  Stiles Stilinski, his dick will be able to control its temper.


	50. Stilinski & Stilinski

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone knows that if you get between the Stilinski twins, you're fucked. 
> 
> And as Derek discovers, sometimes even literally.

Being sandwiched between the Stilinski twins is like being the wire connecting the positive and negative terminals of a battery; the power that flows between the twins, that spark of energy that they share that gets magnified exponentially just by them being in physical contact, flows through his shifter body like he was designed for it. The boost in power makes Derek feel like an alpha again, minus the instincts that come with the power, but after, when the twins finally let him crawl out of bed, he feels achy down to the very marrow of his bones, like how he imagines humans feel after a long, violent struggle.

&&&

Derek asks Deaton about them once, because he’s met his fair share of twins before, and normal twins have different names and different personalities and different  _scents_ , unlike the Stileses, who are perfectly identical in how they look, dress, act, and move. (And that’s not even bringing up the weird shit, like how one Stiles got beat all to hell by Gerard Argent, but the next morning, both of them had identical but less severe bruising, like they’d divvied up the wound between them.)

Deaton drums his fingers on his exam table as he considers how to answer as unhelpfully as possible.

"I’m sure you’re familiar with the idea that nothing is impossible, merely improbable?" he eventually says.

Derek nods.

"Yes, well. Mr. Stilinski is one of those improbable things."

Figures. Count on Deaton to answer a question with an abstract concept.

"Are they going to attract trouble?"

Deaton hums and drums his fingers on the table. “No more trouble than any teenage boy in his position would attract.”

Derek folds his arms over his chest. “Why do you talk about them like they’re one person?”

Deaton crooks an eyebrow at him. “Why do you talk about him like he’s two people?”

&&&

Sometimes Derek wonders what life would be like if there were only one Stiles. If he didn’t have to suffer with two equally devious and flawlessly in sync twins constantly steamrolling him. Maybe he’d actually get to order his own preferred toppings for his pizzas. Maybe he’d be too dead to order pizza at all.

Maybe he’d be the one taking charge during sex instead of trembling like a newborn colt as one Stiles pushes his cock into Derek’s ass alongside his twin’s, stretching and filling Derek with their cocks and their spark to the point where he feels like he’s going to explode from the pressure building under his skin.

Then again, he thinks as one Stiles slow-fucks him while the other does the dishes and waits his turn, maybe not.

&&&

When he finally drums up the courage to ask the twins’ father about them, the man says, “For a long time, I thought I knew. Now I know better.”

And then he looks at the nearest Stiles with the same look that Cora sometimes gets when she looks at him, like she’s seeing someone else in his face.

&&&

Derek is already fucked out when Stiles pushes into him, his twin’s jizz and traces of his own from his first go-around streaking his cock as he pumps in and out of Derek’s loose hole. The other Stiles sits up near Derek’s face, his butt settling into the dip that his twin only just vacated, and Derek gets to work sucking his cock clean, too.

By the time the Stiles fucking him gets close to his second orgasm of the night, the Stiles he’s sucking is hard again, ready for his own second round. Derek’s jaw aches. After three orgasms, his cock, exhausted from the blowjob the twins had given him together and the non-stop fucking, can’t quite get past half-hard, but his ass sings an operatic aria of pleasure and he shudders with a prostate orgasm as Stiles fills his ass with fresh come.

The air is saturated with the scent of Stileses and Derek and sex and sweat, thick enough to make Derek’s head spin. The twins switch off again and Derek is filled one more time. Come squeezes out of his hole to drip down his aching balls, dragged out by the flared head of Stiles’ cock. He laps the other twin’s cock clean, Stiles gasping as Derek’s tongue rasps over the sensitive flesh, and his whole head feels stuffed with the scent and taste of  _themthemthem._

The Stiles not fucking him wrings one last orgasm from his cock, a paltry few drops of liquid oozing out onto long fingers, and the clench of his ass sets the other Stiles off, spilling into Derek’s guts, adding to the lake they’ve already pumped into him. He pulls out and Derek whines, not liking the emptiness after hours without it. Fingers slide into him, holding him open, and Derek feels come leak out around them to drip down over his balls, then over his ass cheek when they turn him on his side to sandwich him between them.

His body buzzes, overwhelmed by shared power and the aftershocks of pleasure, and overfull with satiation and Stiles. It fills in the dark, yawning chasm of guilt that’s been carved into Derek over the years, and for a while, until morning comes, he gets to be whole again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brosephs and Brosephines, I'm capping this story out at 50 chapters because it's getting _really_ long. Check out Volume 2 of this stunningly ridiculous collection: [They See Me Tumbln'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1000702)


End file.
